Mirror World
by M.J.Ellsworth
Summary: With the trials taking a toll on Sam's health, he's unable to stop a posse of mysterious hunters from dragging him into an alternate reality—away from everyone he loves. In this bizarre world, the supernatural is public knowledge. Hunting is an organized, paid profession. And Sam is more of a target than ever before. Hurt!Sam. Protective!Dean. Protective!Castiel.
1. Intruders

_**Author's Note:**_ _Hi everyone! So, I'm not going to lie… This story will really test my writing abilities, but I'm very excited, and I hope you all give it a chance. Should be a lot of fun!_

 _Takes place in season 8, shortly after Goodbye Stranger (8x17)._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _When I was sharing the premise of this story to a friend, she cautioned me that she had seen another story with a similar concept, but couldn't remember where… I'm not trying to copy anyone. Any similarities are coincidental._

 _ **I do not own Supernatural. I am only writing this for fan enjoyment.**_

 **SPN**

" _Listen, I may not be able to carry the burden that comes along with these trials… But I can carry you."_

It was a quarter past noon when Sam finally woke up and stumbled out of bed. Despite sleeping for eight whole hours, he was still tired and found himself wondering, not for the first time, how he would endure the next two trials when he could barely endure the first. His legs were shaking as he changed out of his sweatpants into a pair of jeans. He felt the congestion in his throat as he traded his V-neck for a warm plaid shirt. Except, it wasn't congestion. It was probably blood.

" _Sam… You're damaged in ways even I can't heal."_

Why, in God's name, did Castiel have to make that comment in front of Dean? They all knew the trials would be dangerous, potentially terminal, and while Sam was determined to survive, he didn't need his brother panicking. He would survive. He would. After all, he survived the deepest bowels of hell in a cage with Lucifer! What were three measly trials compared to that?

Running his hands through his hair, Sam ventured out of his room and down the long, subterranean corridors of the bunker. The place was enormous. Even after three-and-a-half months making it their home, they still had much to explore, and much to catalog. Considering how frequently they traveled, the task could take them all year, but Sam didn't mind. He felt safe there. More importantly, he felt comfortable. As much as he loved history, it was almost like a playground.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee and a hot breakfast greeted him as he entered the industrial kitchen. Dean was standing by the stove, dumping scrambled eggs from a skillet onto a plate with bacon and sausage. "Just in time, sleeping beauty." He shot Sam a peppy smile. "I was getting ready to wake you up."

"Dude… You haven't cooked this much since we were kids…" Living on their own while their dad went hunting… Dean taught himself over a hundred different ways to make macaroni and cheese. Good times.

"Well, someone's gotta keep you from wasting away…" Dean tried to sound flippant, but he couldn't keep the concern out of his voice.

Sam frowned as he poured himself a mug of coffee. Was he losing weight? On top of everything else?

They sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Dean slid the plate over to Sam, reserving nothing for himself. "I already had some leftovers," he explained.

Sam nodded, taking a small bite of the eggs. They were surprisingly good; Dean learned a lot during his stay with Lisa and Ben. Unfortunately, Sam didn't have much of an appetite anymore, and knew he wouldn't be able to finish the meal. Soon, he was picking at the food with his fork, much to his brother's annoyance.

"You eat that," he barked, pointing at the plate, "or I'm taking you with me to Warsaw."

The small city in Missouri was where Garth docked his boat— _Fizzles' Folly_. Kevin Tran was currently holed up there, translating the demon tablet away from distractions. (When Sam and Dean suggested moving him to the safety of the bunker, he said he would never get any work done, and blatantly refused.) They hadn't heard from him in awhile, and Dean wanted to check up on him and make sure he had everything he needed.

Warsaw, Missouri was about six hours from Lebanon, Kansas. Dean wouldn't be back until tomorrow, and he figured Sam was better off resting than traveling, especially in the bunker where nothing could hurt him. To be honest, Sam was eager for a short break from his constant hovering, but now, if Dean thought he wouldn't—or couldn't—take care of himself, he wasn't about to leave him on his own.

"I'll be fine, Dean," he said softly, forcing down another bite to make his case.

"Uh-huh…" His brother watched him with a knowing look. Sam promised he wouldn't lie about his health anymore, but it was difficult breaking old habits. He didn't like to admit when he was in pain.

For the next few minutes, neither of them spoke. Sam stared at his breakfast. Eggs, bacon, and sausage. He must be in really poor condition if Dean would go through this much trouble cooking for him, when he himself only had leftovers. But at least Sam wasn't feverish. Not yet, anyway. "I mean it, Dean. I'm sick, but it's not progressing. You can go. I'll still be here when you get back."

"Yeah, you better be," Dean grumbled, climbing to his feet. He made his way over to the sink, where he began to hand wash the dishes. One downside to the bunker was the lack of modern appliances, and Dean seemed reluctant to leave a mess for Sam to clean. "Look, keep your phone on, okay? I'll call you when I get there, and I don't want your voicemail."

"Got it," Sam said, just to humor him. He felt a cough coming, but did everything he could to hold it down. This wasn't the time.

"And if you hear from Cas…" Dean trailed off, letting the skillet slip into the sink. Sam glanced up at him, noticing the tension in his shoulders. Water was pouring out of the faucet, but Dean was no longer scrubbing. He didn't move at all.

Castiel was part of their family, for better or for worse, and Sam knew how deeply it shook Dean when the angel turned on him down in Lucifer's crypt. They shouldn't hold it against him—he was being controlled by Naomi—but that didn't erase the memory of someone Dean loved beating him to an inch of his life. Even after all these years, Sam still remembered the shapeshifter who wore Dean's face while trying to strangle him. It wasn't actually his brother… But it was his brother's face.

Dean sighed, turning off the water. "Don't go anywhere near him, Sammy."

"Come on," Sam tried to reason with him. "You said the angel tablet fixed him."

"Yeah, maybe…" Dean reached for a towel and dried his hands. "But then he took off, God knows where, no explanation, nothing." His shook his head. "We can't trust him anymore."

"You don't mean that," Sam protested.

"Yeah, I think I do…" He crossed his arms. "We need more information. We need to know where his allegiance lies—cause it ain't with us. And I don't want you to get hurt." They stared at each other, and Sam knew he wouldn't win this argument. He might as well pick his battles.

"Okay."

This life… It was nothing but heartache. If Sam could just complete the trials, maybe they would finally have some lasting peace.

 **SPN**

Hours later, after Dean's departure, Sam found himself scrutinizing the giant telescope in the back of the library. It didn't make any sense to have an observatory underground, especially considering the power plant directly overhead. Was there some kind of secret button to open shutters in each level of the facility, thus exposing the sky? Anything was possible, but the more Sam poked around, the more he believed the device was just in storage, perhaps set out for decoration.

It was a shame, really. Sam loved watching the stars. Sometimes, when he and Dean couldn't afford a motel room, they would camp outside. Perched on the hood of the Impala, they would spend hours gazing up at the night sky, never saying a word. Sometimes, they were so far out in the wilderness, they could even see the Milky Way. It was breathtaking. The world contained so much evil that Sam cherished every glimpse of beauty he could find. Dean would never admit it, but he did too. Honestly, a telescope could be revitalizing.

As Sam stroked the long gray tube, the walls around him began reflecting an odd, flickering blue light. Some kind of energy filled the room, making him sweat, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he jumped at the sight of a floating hand mirror with a vintage frame. A portal opened around it, and the next thing Sam knew, a flock of strangers were entering the library. Six total—four men, two women—ranging in age from thirty to fifty—dressed in black uniforms with tactical vests—brandishing submachine guns.

What the hell!?

Before Sam could make sense of it, the intruders fanned out to secure their surroundings. One guy immediately noticed the hunter and marched towards him with a dangerous expression on his chiseled face. He had to be 6'2" or 6'3", with raven-black hair and icy-blue eyes. He didn't make a sound, but he didn't have to. Sam knew exactly what his command would be, and resistance would only get him shot. He wasn't prepared to fight, so he held his hands out in surrender.

Meanwhile, the other five thugs swept in and out of the library, apparently searching for signs of life. Sam didn't move, waiting nervously under the fixed gaze of his guard. He thought about asking who they were… how they got here… what they wanted… But something told him they weren't going to answer.

When they didn't find anyone else in the immediate vicinity, they relaxed, lowering their weapons while sauntering towards their prisoner. Sam quickly scanned their faces, and nearly lost his balance when he recognized two of them.

Christian Campbell had light-brown hair, a widow's peak, and a narrow jawline.

Gwen Campbell had a tough demeanor with dark hair pulled back in a French braid.

They were his cousins—well, his third cousins—and they were both dead.

"Hello, Sam," Gwen said with a patient smile as her friends circled around him. "It's good to see you."

"This can't be real," he replied, heart pounding. The bunker was safe. Impenetrable. How could this be happening? "You're dead!"

Her gaze softened. "I'm sorry to hear that. But you're mistaking me for the Gwen from your reality. We're not the same."

Sam blinked, trying to process the outrageous claim. The Gwen from his reality? Not the same? "What the hell are you talking about?"

Before she could answer, Christian interrupted. "We don't have time for this. We can't clear the whole bunker, and for all we know, he's got help on the way. Focus on the mission." He nodded at a large man with an athletic build and a scruffy face, who promptly pulled a zip tie from his vest. Sam's eyes widened, but with his guard still holding him at gunpoint, he was helpless to prevent the bastard from binding his wrists behind his back. He was then ushered over to a chair and forced to sit down.

"Don't take it personally," Christian told him. "We had no idea you'd be here. We've plundered a lot of bunkers, and this is the first time it wasn't vacant."

Sam peered over at the vintage hand mirror, which was now resting on the central table like a regular piece of glass. "So what? You're a bunch of thieves using that _thing_ to raid parallel realities?"

Christian smirked. "You've got it."

"We're not thieves," the other woman objected. Like Gwen, she wore her blonde hair in a French braid. "We're hunters and retrieval specialists."

"I like the term 'pirate' myself," the athletic guy said, making the woman groan.

"Get to work," Christian admonished before directing his attention to Sam's guard. "Keep an eye on him."

"Yes sir," the man replied.

"What are you looking for?" Sam called after the 'retrieval specialists' as they filed into the control room.

"Shut up," his guard snapped.

"Who the hell are you?" Sam asked, glaring at him in frustration. The man cocked his head, chewing on the question.

"You don't recognize me?"

"Should I?"

The man scoffed. Sam knew from experience—thanks to Gabriel and Balthazar—that parallel realities could be very similar in some respects, but drastically different in others. Perhaps, in whatever reality they came from, these guys were all acquainted with the Winchesters.

"The name's Ethan," he said at last. "Ethan Dobbs."

"What do you want?"

Ethan leaned towards him. "Right now? I want you to shut your pretty little mouth."

Sam fumed, averting his eyes. Of course this would happen while Dean was on the road. That was just his luck.

 **SPN**

Thirty minutes later, Christian, Gwen, and their three buddies made their way back into the library. Judging by their stiff postures, and the lack of loot in their hands, they didn't find anything worth stealing. Sam shifted uncomfortably, tugging on the zip tie that pinched his skin. He didn't think his cousins would hurt him, but then again, he didn't actually know them.

"We're never going to find the crap," the last guy whined. He was in his late forties, and while he had a solid frame, he didn't share Ethan's stamina or the athletic guy's brawn. "What's the point?"

"We'll find some," Gwen calmly assured him. "It's just gonna take longer than we hoped."

"Besides," Christian said, casting his gaze on Sam. "This trip wasn't a complete bust."

Sam shied away, as much as the chair allowed. "What?"

"Christian, no!" Gwen argued, reading his intentions loud and clear. "You can't be thinking what I think you're thinking!"

"Why the hell not?"

Gwen glowered at him, as if he lost his mind. "We're not kidnappers!"

Sam's breath caught in his throat. As far as he could tell, Gwen was the only one fazed by Christian's proposal. The others were considering it with obvious interest. Ethan grinned, flashing his bright, pearly teeth.

"He could be useful," the blonde woman allowed.

"No!" Sam jumped to his feet, in a panic, which compelled Ethan to grab his shoulder and shove him back in his seat.

"Sit your ass down! And SHUT UP!"

Sam flinched at his hostility. "Please," he whispered, picturing Dean. What would his brother do if he returned tomorrow, only to find Sam gone, without a trace? "I belong here."

"Yeah, maybe," Christian agreed. "But that's not my problem." He glanced at Gwen. "You know what your dad would say. The fate of our reality is the only one that matters. Now, we need Sam's help, and the brat's nowhere to be found. This Sam happens to be available."

Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I am NOT available!"

Ethan tossed up his arms. "Oh my God!" He dropped his gun on the table and produced a roll of duct tape from his cargo pants. Sam watched in horror as he peeled back a strip. "Would you…" He roughly pressed the strip over Sam's mouth. "Shut up?"

Gwen was appalled. "Ethan!" But she didn't stop the bastard when he kept peeling the tape, wrapping it behind Sam's head and back around, covering his mouth three or four times.

"I'm sorry," Christian said with genuine regret in his voice as he gazed down at his prisoner. "But you could turn the tide, and that's not something we can pass up."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	2. Through the Looking Glass

**SPN**

When Christian said they had no idea Sam would be in the bunker, that the previous bunkers they had plundered were always vacant, Sam assumed they weren't here to abduct him. He assumed they would steal some kind of artifact and return to their own reality, no harm done. After all, they were his cousins—hunters! Not kidnappers or murderers. At least, that's what he hoped.

Well, so much for that. If Sam didn't want to be carried off against his will, he would have to fight. It was now or never. Reaching into his back pocket, Sam retrieved his jackknife, flipped it open, and severed the zip tie around his wrists. This time, when he jumped to his feet, he was able to punch Ethan in the face before he could respond. The blow wasn't nearly as powerful as it could have been, but it still knocked the bastard over.

"HEY!" someone shouted.

The big, athletic guy moved in on him, and Sam lashed out with the knife. He didn't expect to seriously hurt his opponent—the tactical vest offered him some protection—but maybe the presence of a blade would elicit caution. Unfortunately, the athlete was a trained professional. He dodged Sam's attack, caught his arm, and twisted it behind his back. Pain flared through Sam's shoulder, and before he could counter, Christian was in front of him, kneeing him in the stomach.

Sam doubled over, winded and beaten. When the athlete released his arm, he collapsed onto the floor, groaning. Did he actually think he could escape? He was outnumbered, six to one, and to make things worse, he was sick. The congestion in his throat began tickling his trachea, and he coughed miserably.

"That all you got, pretty boy?" Ethan leaned over him, entwining his fingers through his hair. He pulled, lifting Sam's head off the hardwood floor. "Keep in mind, you're not _our_ Sam. We don't have to treat you with the same regard. Ultimately, you're expendable. So behave!" Something in his voice—the malice peppered with anticipation—chilled Sam to the bone.

"Go easy on him," Gwen sourly appealed. "It's not like we can blame him for struggling." She didn't approve of this development, but gave no sign of interceding. Christian was clearly the leader, and she would respect his authority.

"Get him up."

As Ethan and the athlete hauled their prize to his feet, Sam found himself praying silently to the only one who could possibly help him. _Cas… I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm being shanghaied into an alternate reality, so if it's not too much trouble, could you put aside whatever drama's going on between us, and rescue me?_ He was too desperate to wonder if an angel could penetrate the bunker's protective warding.

Meanwhile, with Ethan and the athlete holding his arms, the older guy began searching his pockets and dropping his possessions on the floor. "Sorry, Sam," he said as he worked. "You're a good kid—at least, I'm assuming you are—but we've got to think about the big picture. You understand?"

"Save your breath, Matthew," Christian advised. "He's not going to care." Sam met his cousin's gaze and glared at him with all the indignation he could muster. Damn right he didn't care! Maybe if—instead of attacking him—they apologized for dropping in unannounced… maybe if they asked politely for his help… But it was too late for that.

"Olivia," Christian glanced over at the blonde woman. "Take us home."

"Yes sir."

Sam's breathing picked up as she ambled over to the table where the vintage mirror lay dormant.

"Just relax," the athlete told him with a hint of sympathy. "It can be a rush, passing between realities, but it doesn't hurt. You'll be fine." Ethan chuckled.

As delicately as she could, Olivia gripped the mirror's handle and raised it in front of her.

Sam glanced frantically around the library. _Cas, please! I need you!_ Dean wasn't coming to save him—had no idea he was in danger—and Castiel wasn't listening. Sam was on his own.

Words streamed out of Olivia's mouth—an incantation. Sam didn't recognize the language—it wasn't Latin or Enochian or anything remotely familiar—which meant he wouldn't be able to memorize it, much less repeat it. Crap!

A blue light began pulsating from deep within the mirror's surface. Each flare produced a resonating sound, like a whale song. As it grew brighter and brighter, louder and louder, filling the room, Sam shuffled backwards, writhing between his captors. They held fast, the athlete with gentle firmness, but Ethan with a dab of cruelty. His fingers sank into Sam's forearm, his nails stung Sam's flesh.

"You're mine now," he taunted, whispering in Sam's ear, and because of the noise, none of his companions heard him.

Sam flushed. Something must have happened between Ethan and the Sam from his reality, cause this was getting personal, and Sam had a feeling that Ethan wasn't above using him as a punching bag.

Energy crackled around them, and the portal opened. Dread coursed through Sam's veins as he gazed into a cerulean abyss. No! He belonged here! His brother needed him here! Hell, the world needed him here! Who would complete the trials if Sam was taken like this? He tried protesting, but couldn't move his lips beneath all that duct tape.

"Let's go," Christian barked, and Sam was shoved forward. He shoved back, squirming with all the strength he had, but flanked by Ethan and the athlete, he was overwhelmed. They quickly dragged him into the portal, and the next thing he knew, he was floating precariously in a shimmering blue void. It felt like zero gravity, and Sam instantly lost all sense of direction. Up, down, left, right… none of it meant anything, and it was so disorienting, he feared he might hurl—which would really suck with a gag sealing his mouth shut.

The suspension didn't last long. Moments later, his feet touched down, and his knees buckled. He would have collapsed if not for the support of his captors. Head spinning, it took awhile to get his bearings. He was in a large room… Brick walls, hardwood floor, massive columns… It was the library in the bunker… Except the furniture was arranged differently, and there was a crowd of people watching him. Where did they all came from? Who were they?

Sam blinked, heart pounding.

"Just take it easy…" the athlete was telling him, but his voice was faint and distorted, as if underwater. A hand rubbed his back, trying to soothe him. He didn't know if it belonged to the athlete or to Ethan… But he hoped it was the athlete… "The first time's always the hardest… You'll be fine… Just breathe…"

Sam wanted to scream. Not only was he a prisoner behind enemy lines, he was a mere duplicate of _their_ Sam, which made him disposable. They could treat him however they liked, and he wouldn't get a say in the matter. Caught in parallel reality, he was so far from home, how would Dean ever find him?

Gradually, his stomach settled, and he took stock of his surroundings. Everyone in the room—all twenty or thirty of them—wore the same black uniforms, minus the tactical vests, and they were all gaping at him in wide-eyed fascination. They clearly weren't expecting his arrival, and they weren't sure what to make of him, but if they noticed his distress, they were quick to ignore it.

Over to the left, Christian and Gwen were deliberating with a clean-cut, silver-haired stranger who carried himself with poise and discipline. Over to the right, Olivia was relinquishing the mirror to a couple of wiry men with glasses. They handled it like a fragile antique, carefully transporting it out of the library and deeper into the bunker.

No… That mirror was Sam's only way back! He started after it, but his captors restrained him.

"Come on, Sam," the athlete chastised. "Don't make this more difficult than it has to be."

 _Screw you!_

Sam twisted around and angrily kicked the athlete in the groin. He doubled over, wheezing, and Sam pushed backwards, ramming Ethan into a column. The man gasped, and Sam managed to shake himself free. The only problem was he had nowhere to go. Half a dozen strangers were closing in around him, and while he landed several blows, they soon had him on his knees. Then, just to emphasize their control, they bent him over and roughly planted his face to the floor.

Sam bellowed in frustration as a hollow pit formed in his stomach. He wasn't going anywhere.

After a pause, he heard footsteps approaching him. He wasn't allowed to look up, so when a pair of dark combat boots appeared in front of him, he couldn't see who they belonged to.

"I had an opportunity, and I took it," Christian explained from a distance. "He might not be our Sam, but he's got the same DNA, right? He could answer a lot of questions—save us a lot of trouble."

"Sir, I respectfully disagree," Gwen objected. "This is a moral outrage. We kidnapped him!"

"It's not like anyone's going to miss him," Christian countered. "Not here, anyway."

"That doesn't matter!" Gwen was clearly losing her patience. "Just because we can get away with it doesn't make it less of a crime! We're supposed to be the good guys!"

Christian scoffed. "Please. We're at war. We don't have the luxury to be 'the good guys.'"

"But—!"

"That's enough, Gwen," the man towering over Sam said in a deep, gravelly voice. "Christian made the right call. The boy's an asset, and our reality's the only reality that matters." Sam groaned, squirming uncomfortably. These selfish dicks were taking entitlement to a whole new level. "I want him sent straight to the compound. We can evaluate him there."

"But sir—!"

"Gwen, don't make me repeat myself."

"Sir," Ethan interjected. "With your permission, I'd like to see to his transfer."

Sam's blood ran cold. He tried shaking his head, but couldn't move under the unyielding weight of someone's hand.

"Thank you, Ethan," the man replied. "Take PHS-14 and have him secured on level 6. Then wait for me. I have to report this to the chief, but I'd like to be there for the preliminary inspection."

Preliminary inspection? What the hell did these bastards want with him!? Sam mentally replayed his captors' words.

" _He could be useful."_

" _Now, we need Sam's help, and the brat's nowhere to be found. This Sam happens to be available."_

" _But you could turn the tide, and that's not something we can pass up."_

" _We've got to think about the big picture."_

" _He might not be our Sam, but he's got the same DNA, right? He could answer a lot of questions—save us a lot of trouble."_

" _The boy's an asset…"_

" _Preliminary inspection…"_

Sam had been in some very tight spots throughout his life, so when every instinct urged him to run, he knew he was screwed. He had to fight. This 'compound' could be anywhere in the country—anywhere in the world—and if these bastards dragged him out of the bunker, he might never make it home. _Dean…_

He bucked desperately, but his captors were relentless. Someone procured a pair of handcuffs, and his wrists were once again fastened behind his back. He was abruptly yanked to his feet, and he found himself standing directly opposite the clean-cut, silver-haired stranger. Up close, the man had a strong, weathered face and piercing green eyes.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he reached out to clutch Sam's jaw. His grip was tight and painful, making Sam flinch. "You're a gift from the gods, son. Don't let us down." With that, he gave Gwen and Christian a terse nod. "Dismissed." And then he walked away.

For one agonizing moment, Sam's gaze locked onto Gwen's. She was visibly upset, but there was nothing she could do.

"You heard him, pretty boy," Ethan said, latching onto his arm and shoving him out of the library, into the corridor. They were accompanied by a sizable escort, which made escaping unlikely. Sam's spirits were sinking by the second, only to plummet when they entered the garage. It didn't contain the gorgeous collection of classic vehicles found in _his_ garage. Rather, it contained an imposing fleet of black hummers with tinted windows.

A tiny whimper slipped through his gag.

Ethan smirked. "Time to go."

 **SPN**

 _ **Are we having fun yet?**_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	3. A Drop in the Ocean

**SPN**

Kidnappers or not, these sons of bitches were undeniably skilled at handling live cargo. As they ushered Sam through the garage, they displayed the quick proficiency that came from experience. Even when he dragged his feet, they didn't slow down.

Their assigned hummer was a colossal monstrosity with three rows. Ethan forced Sam to wait as two men climbed into the front, three into the back, and one in the middle.

"Watch your head," Ethan advised as the man in the middle turned to reach out for Sam. Ethan nudged him forward, and together, they hoisted him into the vehicle. All too soon, he was securely buckled in the central seat, surrounded on every side, with a metal barricade separating him from the front. There was no way out, and when Ethan pulled the door shut with a loud thump, Sam found himself shrinking in despair.

Then—as if the cuffs and the gag weren't enough—someone from the third row gave Ethan a black drawstring pouch, and he smirked sadistically. Crap… Sam shook his head, squirming as much as possible, but he couldn't fend off his antagonist. "I'd calm down if I were you," Ethan purred as he wrestled the pouch over Sam's head, covering his face. "Focus on breathing." He tightened the drawstrings around Sam's neck to keep the pouch from sliding off. It was thick, stuffy, and it smelled disgusting, as if they used it on multiple prisoners without cleaning it. Sam couldn't see a thing, and if he wasn't careful, he might actually suffocate.

He moaned, fighting back tears—angry tears, but tears nonetheless. How the hell was he going to get home? What did these bastards want with him? Didn't they at least owe him an explanation?

"Okay, we're in," Ethan told the driver while pressing down on Sam's thigh. "Let's go."

Immediately, the hummer roared to life and veered out of its parking spot. Sam tried to focus on its course as it approached the exit, but was too distracted by Ethan's thumb rubbing against his leg. With the seatbelt restraining him, he didn't have the mobility to object.

Soon, the hummer paused, and the driver rolled down his window. "Evening, Coop… PHS-14, checking out with Ethan Dobbs and one VIP." Sam scoffed at the designation. "On our way to the compound… Thank you." He rolled his window back up, and they continued forward. Moments later, Sam felt the vehicle turn south—felt Ethan's hand travel down to his knee—felt the vehicle turn east—felt Ethan squeeze.

Damn it!

A faint protest escaped Sam's throat, and he tried edging away from Ethan. Unfortunately, the man sitting on his other side didn't appreciate him encroaching on his space, and elbowed him back. "Quit your fussing," he growled. "Or I swear to God, I'll sedate you."

"Just breathe," Ethan said, adopting a friendly voice, which Sam knew was fake. From the moment they met, Ethan was nothing but hostile, and now, he was getting off on Sam's predicament. The hand slid back up his thigh, and Sam bucked angrily, shouting through his gag.

"This is gonna be a long drive," someone complained.

"Relax," Ethan replied with smug confidence. "Between the gag and the hood, it won't take long for him to settle down." Sam officially despised the bastard, and wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong, but sure enough, the hood was already stifling him, and the stench was nauseating. His head was starting to swim.

Then, without warning, the hummer swerved so sharply that Sam fell against Ethan—the seatbelt dug into his body. It felt like a traffic circle—except the bunker wasn't near any traffic circles. At least not in Sam's reality. The driver pressed down on the accelerator and kept swerving, which disoriented Sam more than ever. Ethan laughed while the men in the back whooped, obviously enjoying the ride. When they finally continued on their journey, Sam had lost all sense of direction. He sagged in his seat, struggling to breathe.

"Thatta boy," Ethan whispered, still groping his leg. "Save your strength. We'll be there before you know it."

 **SPN**

Driving alone was not something Dean enjoyed under the best of circumstances, and now, with Sammy's health in question, the Impala's empty passenger seat weighed heavily on his mind. How could he possibly justify a field trip to Missouri when his little brother was sick back home? Of course, he had to think about the big picture—for Sam to recover, he had to complete the trials and close the Gates of Hell—which meant Kevin had to finish translating the demon tablet. Nothing was more important, and Dean personally had to make sure Kevin understood the stakes.

It wasn't fair. Dean should have been the one to shoulder this load. It was his turn! Sam already saved the world by diving straight into the friggin' cage. How much more did the world expect from him? Besides, strategically, Dean was the better choice. After a year in Purgatory, he was in the best shape of his life. He could weather a supernatural flu and still accomplish whatever was required, no problem. Why did it have to be Sam?

Fifty miles outside Kansas City, Dean's phone began to ring. Keeping his eyes on the road, and one hand on the wheel, he fished the device from his pocket. Who would be calling? It was early in the evening, around dinner time, so potentially, it could be anyone. Sam. Benny. Kevin. Garth. The list was surprisingly long. He answered. "Hello?"

"Dean…" It was Castiel, and there was no mistaking the urgency in his voice. Dean's heart sprang to his throat. "Where are you!? Where's Sam!?"

Something was wrong. Very wrong. Was it the angel tablet? Was it Crowley? Naomi? Despite the assault in Lucifer's crypt, despite everything he told Sam about not trusting their closest friend, Dean would still drop everything to rescue Cas if he found himself in danger. "I'm heading over to check on Kevin. Sam's resting. What's going on?"

"No," Castiel protested. "Dean… Sam is not resting." _Son of a bitch!_ "He prayed to me for help, but I couldn't reach him. Your new home is heavily fortified."

Dean pulled into the emergency lane and stopped the car. These days, for Castiel to answer a prayer, the threat had to be significant. He pictured Sam on the library floor, feverish, dehydrated, delirious, vulnerable, with no one to nurse him back to health. Damn it. He never should have left! "I'm in Missouri, on highway 7, near Garden City." He relayed the mile marker, and Castiel appeared in the passenger seat.

Dean flinched. It didn't matter how accustomed he was to the angel's abilities; he wasn't ready for this encounter. They were supposed to be friends! But Castiel had spent months ignoring him, lying to him, manipulating him… He tried to kill him! Like it or not, Dean was having a hard time dealing with his betrayal.

When Castiel met his gaze, he wore a look of fear and regret. "I'm sorry, Dean. I can't explain it, but somehow, Sam's been kidnapped…" Dean's blood ran cold. "And not only that… He said they were 'shanghaiing' him into an alternate reality."

Alternate reality?

Dean shook his head. "No… That's not… That's crazy!" Sam was safe in the bunker. He couldn't be kidnapped. Cas literally just told him the place was heavily fortified! Who could possibly break in when the angel could not?

"I'm afraid it's true," Cas somberly maintained. "I recognized the panic in your brother's tone. We have to find him. Quickly." And with that, the angel pressed one hand against Dean's shoulder and the other against the Impala's dashboard. In the blink of an eye, they were parked outside the bunker.

Yanking the key from the ignition, Dean scrambled from the driver's seat with Castiel trailing after him. They hastened down the steps to the bunker's underground entrance where Dean frantically unlocked the door. Once inside, they peered over the balcony railing to the control room below. It was a dump. Someone had ransacked the storage boxes piled in the far corner, as well as the filing cabinets. Paper was strewn across the central table, covering the world map. Sam's laptop was sitting wide open, the computers were all turned on, and every piece of equipment had been tampered with. What the hell?

"SAMMY!?" Drawing a gun from its holster, Dean raced down the stairs and barreled toward the library. How could this happen? The bunker had wards protecting it from evil. It should have been safe! Shards of guilt and anguish pierced his heart. He should have known better. There was no such thing as 'safe.'

Sam wasn't in the library, but his wallet, knife, and cell phone were littering the floor. Son of a bitch! The more Dean saw, the more convinced he became. Sam always cleaned up after himself, which meant the mess was made by someone else. Castiel was telling the truth. And if he was telling the truth, then Sam wasn't just missing. He was caught in a different reality, with no way back, and no one to rescue him. He was alone, and he was sick, and Dean wanted to break something.

"Who would do this?" he asked, turning to watch the angel, who was pacing the room with a deep, pensive frown.

"The question isn't, 'who?' The question is, 'how?'"

How?

Dean thought back to that stormy night when Balthazar tossed them in that alternate reality where the supernatural wasn't real. "A spell?" He searched his memory, snapping his fingers. "Dead Sea brine, lamb's blood, and the bone of a lesser saint…" How hard could it be to gather the ingredients, perform the spell, and retrieve Sam?

Castiel sighed, sparing him a brief glance. "It's not that simple. Our reality is part of a massive multiverse that you can't begin to comprehend." Dean rolled his eyes. "Think about every decision you make on a given day. Do you get out of bed, or do you sleep in? Do you brew a fresh pot of coffee, or do you grab a cold beer? Do you drive north to hunt a monster in Nebraska, or do you drive south to hunt one in Oklahoma? Different realities exist for every possible decision you could ever make, every day of your entire life. Now, multiply that by every creature that ever lived. Then, multiply it by every creative decision ever considered by an infinite God."

Dean tried not to let the angel's words discourage him, but they were so daunting… He couldn't help but remember what Death told him the first time they met. _"Think how you'd feel if a bacterium sat at your table and started to get snarky. This is one little planet in one tiny solar system in a galaxy that's barely out of its diapers."_

Damn…

"The multiverse cannot be measured, Dean," Cas continued. "Our reality is less than one drop of water in all the oceans of the world. Now, conjuring a bridge between realities is simple enough, but conjuring a bridge between _specific_ realities is far more difficult, especially when we don't know which reality Sam was taken to. If we search for him that way, we will never find him."

"So what do we do!?" Dean asked, a hint of anger in his voice.

" _I mean it, Dean…"_ Sam's words echoed in his mind. _"I'm sick, but it's not progressing. You can go. I'll still be here when you get back."_

" _Yeah, you better be…"_

What if he never saw his brother again?

Castiel licked the tip of his finger and held it up, as if checking the wind. "Unless I'm mistaken, some residual energy is lingering in the air. Sam's kidnappers must have used a vehicle for their journey. If we can identify the vehicle, I might be able to track it, using the energy as a guide."

Hope blossomed in Dean's chest, and he clapped his hands together. "Great! That's a start, right?" He wondered what the lore said about traveling between realities. "Maybe the Men of Letters knew something. I mean, if these trespassers were able to access the bunker in spite of the protective warding, maybe they were already in the bunker—their bunker—when they made the jump." Dean might not be the family researcher, but he was still an experienced hunter, and he could solve a mystery in his sleep—especially when Sam was in danger.

Castiel approved. "We'll have to hurry, Dean. The energy could dissipate. I don't know how long we have."

Figures.

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's do this!"

 _Hold on, Sammy… We're gonna to find you… I swear to God!_

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	4. The Compound

**SPN**

Sam didn't know how long he was trapped in that hummer, but it had to be hours. They stopped for gas twice, but aside from the driver, no one climbed out to stretch their legs. They didn't want to risk losing their captive, so they kept him boxed in at all times. It was very claustrophobic, especially with his encumbrances. Ethan was right—between the hood and the gag, Sam could barely breathe, much less struggle, so he languished in his seat, praying for Castiel—or anyone—to help him back home. But no one answered.

At least Ethan dialed back the offensive contact. Sort of. His hand was still resting on Sam's thigh, but he only felt around when Sam was fidgeting. It was a familiar—and effective—tactic to promote submission—if he behaved himself, Ethan would leave him alone, but if he made a fuss, Ethan would retaliate. Consequently, Sam did everything he could to sit perfectly still while trying not to think about the cage. Memories of Lucifer would only aggravate him.

Thankfully, he was too sick and too stressed to have an appetite. When someone behind him began passing around snacks, the scumbags went out of their way to taunt him with their food, chewing loudly and smacking their lips while asking if he was hungry. Of course, they didn't offer him a single bite, which made him wonder if they hated him in particular, or if they treated all prisoners with such animosity. Sadistic bastards.

Eventually, the hummer decelerated, turned a sharp corner, and came to a halt. The driver rolled down his window. "PHS-14, checking in with Ethan Dobbs and one VIP."

They were here. Wherever 'here' was…

Sam strained his ears, trying to glean as much information as possible, but whoever stood outside the vehicle spoke in a faint voice.

"Level 6," the driver told him. "By order of Will Campbell…"

Campbell? Sam pictured the silver-haired stranger with the green eyes. Was he a Campbell? Was he family? No. Not family. This was an alternate reality! They had nothing to do with him or his mom.

"That's classified," the driver said, interrupting Sam's thoughts. "Are you going to let us in or not?" The voice outside gave a quiet reply, and then a shrill buzz welcomed them to the compound. "Thank you," the driver said, pulling forward while rolling his window back up.

Sam flinched when Ethan's hand suddenly squeezed his leg. "We made it," he whispered in satisfaction. "I'll be honest, pretty boy. You're not gonna like this place." The prospect seemed to amuse him, and Sam squirmed despite himself. Ethan's hand slid smoothly up his thigh. "The whole facility is state-of-the-art, staffed by experts in the field. Believe me, they know what they're doing, and they are very thorough."

" _Preliminary inspection…"_

Sam shuddered, wishing he could be anywhere else in the world.

After another five minutes, the hummer parked, and the driver turned off the ignition. Several doors opened at once while Ethan unbuckled Sam's seatbelt. He was promptly jostled out of the vehicle, and would have stumbled to the ground if his guards weren't waiting to catch him. The long drive made his legs wobbly, and he could barely hold himself erect.

"What do we have here?" a new voice asked—this one female.

"That's classified, Gina," Ethan replied. "Mind your own business."

"Always a pleasure, Dobbs." She spoke with feigned annoyance, but no real concern. Sam must not have been the first prisoner brought here against his will. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if it was a frequent occurrence.

"Come on," Ethan said, leading the way.

Sandwiched between two guards, Sam was forced to walk—and with the hood in place, he had no idea where he was going. The weight of the fabric—and its stench—kept him from gauging the air quality, so he could perceive nothing of the environment… At least nothing but the immediate sounds of his entourage and the painful grips of his guards. They kept him moving at a brisk pace, so it took all his concentration not to trip.

"Stairs," someone warned him, just in time for him to make the first step. He climbed awkwardly, and was grateful when the ascent proved short—it must have been the stoop leading up to the main entrance. Sure enough, he heard an automatic door sliding open, and he was frogmarched inside. They paused in what Sam imagined was the vestibule.

"You're going to take one step forward," the guard on his left told him in a stern voice. "And you're going to stand perfectly still for the security scanner. It's a full-body scanner, so if you try to run, you'll only be able to move forward or backward, and guards are waiting on both sides, so you can't escape. If you know what's good for you, behave yourself."

Sam grunted angrily, but was in no condition to resist. His guards prodded him into the scanner—he pictured the bulky, controversial machines found in airports—and he reluctantly stood still. He wouldn't accomplish anything by rebelling. Not now. Too many guards were expecting it. He had to wait for the ideal moment… If it ever came…

"All right, move along!" someone told him. Sam hesitated, not wanting to be too compliant, but someone reached in behind him and shoved him forward. He stumbled, losing his balance, but once again, guards were ready to catch him, and they were kind enough to steady him—he assumed it was because they had to wait for the rest of their entourage.

Meanwhile, he heard the clacking of high heels as someone approached them.

"PHS-14?" a woman asked. Sam thought he recognized her voice, but couldn't place it.

"Yes, ma'am." The hummer's driver assumed leadership. "I'm Paul Russell. This is my team. Ethan Dobbs. And our VIP himself."

Sam could almost feel the woman staring at him. "I'm Dr. Visyak," she said at last, making Sam start. Visyak? Eleanor Visyak? Professor of Medieval Studies at SFU? Native of Purgatory? What the hell!? "I've been expecting you," she continued, oblivious of the effect she was having on the prisoner. "When you're ready, I will escort you to level 6."

It only took a few more minutes for everyone to pass security, and then they were on their way, deeper into the facility. Sam wished they would remove the bag over his head so he could take stock of his surroundings and come up with a plan—which was no doubt why they kept it on. They were taking no chances, and the more restrictions they placed on him, the easier he was to control. Besides, they were obviously keeping his identity a secret.

After walking a fairly long distance, Sam was forced to stop. An elevator dinged, and the doors rumbled open. They proceeded onto the lift, which shuddered before rising—the sensation made Sam's stomach flip.

"I understand this VIP is from an alternate reality," Dr. Visyak said in the privacy of the elevator. "How much have you told him about the compound?"

"Nothing," Paul said. "He's just a specimen. What does he need to know?"

First he was an expendable duplicate. Now he was a specimen? Sam thought he might throw up, and he squirmed miserably.

"He's not just a specimen," Dr. Visyak protested. "He's an asset!"

"Don't start sympathizing with him, doctor," Paul advised. "You don't want to mistake him for the real one. Trust me, it'll be easier for us all if you treat him exactly like your other… projects."

Before she could answer, the elevator jerked to a stop, the doors slid open, and they continued on their way. Sam wasn't sure how large the compound was, but they must have walked for at least twenty minutes, rounding several corners in the process. Finding his way out of here would be a nightmare.

When they finally reached wherever they were going, Dr. Visyak said, "Our instructions were to wait for Mr. Campbell, but since the 'specimen' is up, we might as well take his measurements. Would you mind removing his shoes?"

Sam stiffened, shaking his head. He shied away, but his guards tightened their grips, no doubt bruising his arms. Meanwhile, several pairs of hands caught each of his legs, holding them steady. Someone seized his left ankle and heaved his foot off the floor. Not only was the shoe discarded, but the sock as well. When they set his foot back down and reached for the other, the cold tile made Sam moan.

Once he was barefoot, they ushered him onto a medical scale and positioned a rod directly on top of his head to check his height.

"Six feet, four inches," Dr. Visyak noted.

Meanwhile, someone grabbed the front of Sam's shirt and yanked him forward. "We're going to take your weight now, pretty boy," Ethan told him. "Which means you're going to stand perfectly still for us. If you don't, we'll take more than your shoes. Got it?" He shoved Sam back, and his guards cautiously released him.

Sam fumed, wanting nothing more than to run. He wouldn't get very far—not with the hood suffocating him—but surely it was better than cooperating. They were treating him like an animal, and it wasn't right! What were they looking for? What was so special about him that they would subject him to _this_!?

It wasn't… It wasn't the demon blood, was it?

"One-seventy-two," Dr. Visyak said, cutting into his thoughts.

One-seventy-two? Seriously? When did he lose so much weight?

Ethan chuckled. "Someone needs to take better care of himself."

Thankfully, with the hood in place, no one saw him flush.

"Bring him in here," Dr. Visyak said.

His guards quickly grabbed his arms and followed her command. It was pointless, but Sam nevertheless dug his heels into the ground. He didn't want to be here, and he dreaded what might happen next. Unfortunately, he didn't have the strength to overtake his guards, and they easily dragged him after their escort.

Then, they forcefully spun him around and shoved him backwards. He landed on some kind of cushion. The next thing he knew, two men were gripping his shoulders, two were gripping his waist, and two were gripping his legs.

"On three," Ethan said. "One… Two… Three…" Working together, they hoisted him up and heaved him the rest of the way onto a mattress. Crap. If they were going through so much trouble to set him down, they weren't just going to let him back on his feet. Sam grunted, writhing desperately as they grappled with his legs, forcing them apart. A moment later, they snapped shackles around his ankles, securing them to the sides of the bed. Then, they sat him up, removed his handcuffs, and pushed him back down. More shackles were applied to his wrists. He tugged, but they were likewise anchored to the sides of the bed.

"Almost there," Ethan said, fingering Sam's neck. He loosened the drawstrings, and slipped the pouch over Sam's face. It would have been a relief if not for the blinding spotlight. Sam moaned, clenching his eyes shut and twisting away.

"Not so fast," Ethan said, snagging a fistful of his hair and yanking his head off the mattress. Sam winced as pain flared through his scalp.

Someone behind him leaned over and buckled some kind of leather cuff around his neck. It immediately brought to mind a collar, and Sam howled indignantly, thrashing against his restraints. Ethan dropped his head, smiling in delight, while the cuff was leashed to the top of the bed. It offered very little slack—three inches at the most—and when Sam reflexively tried to sit up, the collar bit into his throat. Sitting was no longer an option, and he sank back against the mattress, trembling.

 _Dean…_

Taking pity on him, Dr. Visyak dimmed the spotlight that was positioned directly over the bed. Sam knew she was a monster—same DNA, right?—but she looked like a middle-aged blonde dressed in a lab coat with her hair pulled back in a French braid. It seemed to be the standard style for women in this reality.

Blinking his eyes, Sam nervously surveyed his surroundings. Sure enough, he was lying on a mattress with no covers—his limbs were fastened to the bed rails. The room itself was spacious and sterilized, with white walls, a variety of medical equipment, and a wide mirror that loomed directly across from him, above the door, up near the ceiling. He wouldn't be surprised if it was actually an observation window.

"I hope you're comfortable," Ethan said, squeezing the back of his hand. Sam glared at him with all the defiance he could muster, which only made the bastard wink provocatively. "Consider this your new home. It's where you'll spend the rest of your life."

Sam grunted, pulling helplessly on his restraints. He was so screwed!

"All right, that's enough," Dr. Visyak barked, ironically more human than the actual humans. "He's not going anywhere, and we're supposed to wait for Mr. Campbell. Everyone out."

"He shouldn't be left alone," Ethan began.

"He's no longer your responsibility," Dr. Visyak replied. "Now get out." Ethan looked up at her in blatant frustration, but she must have outranked him. Sam watched in relief as Paul nudged Ethan away from the bed. They slowly filed out of the room, tails tucked between their legs. Dr. Visyak shot Sam a brief look of compassion, then turned off all the lights, stepped outside, and closed the door.

Darkness once again washed over Sam, and he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever see his brother again.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	5. Preliminary Inspection

_**Author's Note:**_ _Please be advised, this chapter is dark. And I mean really dark, with unforgivable Hurt!Sam. It's not anymore graphic than the show, but it was still hard to write, and you should definitely consider yourself warned._

 **SPN**

When the door reopened—after what felt like hours—Sam glanced up to see a petite silhouette standing in the threshold. He tensed, expecting her to light the room all at once, but she used a dimmer, brightening the room gradually enough for his eyes to adjust—and she left the spotlight over the bed turned off. It was surprisingly thoughtful, and he gave her an appreciative look.

"Hello, Sam," she said in a pleasant voice as she closed the door behind her. Dressed in gray scrubs with a white undershirt, she immediately brought to mind a middle-aged nurse with long chestnut hair—her braid was currently draped over her shoulder. Despite her tiny frame, she carried herself with the strength and confidence of an experienced veteran. "My name is Danielle, and I'll be Dr. Robert's assistant today."

So… She wasn't here to help him. Sam sighed, turning his head to stare at the wall. His collar rubbed awkwardly against his neck.

If Danielle noticed his despondency, she didn't acknowledge it. "Mr. Campbell's chopper will be landing soon, and we need to make you ready." She crossed over to the bed, and the next thing Sam knew, she was reaching for his face. Startled, he jerked away from her, which only made the shackles chafe his wrists—at least his ankles were protected by his jeans.

"Relax," Danielle cooed. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm only here to remove the gag."

Oh, thank God.

Sam nodded, holding still as she peeled back the edge of the duct tape with her perfectly manicured nails. The first few layers came off easily enough, and she periodically used scissors to shorten the long strip, keeping it manageable. The bottom layer, however, was sealed directly to his skin, and he dreaded the idea of her ripping it off.

Fortunately, she was prepared for that. Sauntering across the room, she rifled through a cabinet and carried an armful of supplies over to a counter with a sink. She turned the water on, waited for it to warm up, and held a wash towel under the faucet. Then, turning the water off, she doused the towel with some kind of oil. Making her way back to the bed, she gently began wiping his face.

It was necessary, but humiliating. Sam felt like an invalid getting a sponge bath, and it was all he could do not to squirm. Danielle worked for several minutes, allowing the adhesive to soften before she peeled it the rest of the way off. Even then, it took several strands of his hair with it, and he gasped, straining against his restraints.

Finally able to breathe through his mouth, he took a large gulp of air… only to start coughing. Danielle's eyes widened, and she fell back a step as he hacked up his lungs. It was painful, and he wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball, but the collar pressed into his throat, strangling him. Tears slid down his cheeks as bloody sputum filled his mouth.

"The hell—?" Danielle scurried back to the cabinet and pulled out a specimen cup. By the time Sam finished coughing, she held it in his face. "Spit." He didn't hesitate, desperate to get the crap off his tongue. His head was throbbing, and he sagged miserably on the bed. Danielle rapidly sealed the lid to the cup and pressed her hand against his forehead. "How long have you been sick?"

He shrugged, too weak to bother answering.

Suddenly, an intercom buzzed, and Sam noticed a speaker hanging on the wall. "That's enough, Thompson," a man's voice said sternly. Danielle glanced up at the giant mirror over the door. "We're not to begin yet."

"Sorry, sir," she replied, removing her hand. She wandered over to counter, set down the specimen cup, and produced a water cup that she filled at the sink. Slipping in a straw, she returned to the bed and offered Sam a drink. He was too thirsty to refuse. "I know you're uncomfortable," she whispered sympathetically. "And I can't promise it'll get better… but it can easily get worse, so don't try to fight us. We're doing this for a just cause."

Sam spat out the straw, glaring at her in disbelief. "A just cause!?" His voice was ragged. "Are you kidding me!?" His throat felt like it was on fire.

"The fate of the world's at stake," she calmly insisted.

"And that justifies kidnapping?"

"Yes," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "The end justifies the means."

He scoffed, but his fear was eclipsing his outrage. If that was her attitude, he would never change her mind. Still, he had to try. "You can't do this. It's not right!"

"You're wasting your energy," she told him, not unkindly. "No one's going to listen to you." She tossed the water cup in a waste basket, picked up the towel, and resumed scrubbing his face. He flinched, writhing uselessly.

"Stop! Don't touch me!"

"I just want to get the residue off your skin," she said, working patiently. "I'm almost done." She kept at it for several more minutes while Sam fumed.

"There," she said at last, offering him an encouraging smile. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" She brushed her hand through his hair in a show of comfort, but it only made him moan. "I'm going to step out, and when Mr. Campbell is ready, Dr. Robert and I will be back for the exam." Sam clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head.

"Haven't you people ever heard of the Geneva Conventions?"

She sighed. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I wish there was another way. But right now, you're all we have. Please, Sam. Cooperate."

When he didn't answer, she turned away from the bed, shut the lights off, and left the room.

 **SPN**

The next time the door opened, the lights were switched on instantly—including the spotlight—which made Sam recoil, momentarily blinded. Damn…

Four pairs of footsteps entered the room, closing the door behind them. Sam stiffened, blinking his eyes frantically. "No! Stay away from me!" When his vision returned, he perceived Danielle, Ethan, and two other men. One was the silver-haired bastard from the bunker… Will Campbell? The other was a gaunt old man with a thin gray beard, wispy hair, and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a white lab coat, and carried a clipboard.

"Hello, Sam. My name is Dr. Robert. I'll be conducting the exam. I believe you've already met Danielle, Ethan, and Mr. Campbell?" As he indicated each of his colleagues, Sam's heart began to race.

"What are they doing here?" he asked, staring at Ethan—who met his gaze with a predatory glint in his eyes. "Shouldn't this at least be private?"

Positioning himself at the foot of the bed, Campbell caught Sam's attention. "All right, son. Let's be clear. This compound is not a hospital, and you are not a patient. We are in a research facility, and you are a specimen. You don't have any privacy, and you certainly don't have any rights. The sooner you accept that, the better."

Sam shivered. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from me!?"

"We just want to understand your physiology," Dr. Robert said, as if that explained everything.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked with a pit in his stomach. "My physiology is human!"

Campbell scoffed. "We'll see about that." He glanced at Dr. Robert, who was setting the clipboard down on the counter. "Shall we get started?"

"Certainly."

As the old man went to retrieve a blood pressure gauge, Sam homed in on Danielle. She mouthed the word 'Sorry,' but was in no position to protect him. He was on his own.

 _Cas… Please… Can you hear me?_

"Danielle, would you please roll up his sleeve?"

The nurse walked over to Sam's right arm and quickly exposed the crook his elbow. There was nothing he could do to stop her. Dr. Robert donned his stethoscope, wrapped a cuff around Sam's arm, applied the chest piece to his brachial artery, and began to inflate the cuff. Sam grimaced as the cuff tightened to a painful degree. After a pause, Dr. Robert slowly released the pressure.

Whoosh…

Sam could feel the blood pulsing in his arm.

"140/90."

Ethan clucked his tongue. "You need to relax, Sam."

"Screw you!"

Dr. Robert removed the cuff, passing it to Danielle. He pulled a penlight from his pocket and reached for Sam's face, roughly forcing his left eyelids apart.

"No! Let go!" Sam bucked angrily as the man flashed the light in his eye. Then, he leaned over and did the same to his right eye. He proceeded to grab Sam's jaw, forcing his head back to peer into each of his nostrils.

"Danielle," he said, summoning the nurse. She appeared on Sam's other side. When the doctor released his jaw, she pried his mouth open. He produced a tongue depressor, stuck it in, and checked the back of his throat. Sam nearly gagged, squirming as much as he could. Why was this happening to him?

"Hmm…" Dr. Robert took a step back, tossing the tongue depressor into the waste basket. Danielle released Sam's mouth, once again brushing her hand through his hair.

"How's he look?" Campbell asked.

"Sick," the doctor replied, wandering over to the counter. He made a note on the clipboard and rifled through the cabinet. When he returned to the bed, he carried a second tongue depressor and a long cotton swab. Sam's eyes widened and he tugged on his restraints.

"Don't!"

Dr. Robert offered a patient smile, feigning sympathy. "It's going to be all right, Sam." He nodded at Danielle, who once again pried Sam's mouth open. Using the tongue depressor, Dr. Robert carefully eased the swab down Sam's throat and started rubbing. This time, Sam definitely gagged, but no matter how hard he struggled, Danielle managed to hold him steady. She was stronger than she looked.

It only lasted a few seconds. Then the doctor removed the swab and hastened over to the counter. Danielle released him, and Sam found himself panting for breath.

"Leave me alone," he begged.

Campbell smirked. "We're just getting started."

A few minutes later, Dr. Robert returned with an otoscope. "Let's take a look at those ears." With Danielle's assistance, he didn't just stick the speculum in Sam's ear—he also triggered a puff of air to observe the tympanic membrane.

Sam bucked, gritting his teeth. "You son of a bitch!"

"There's no need for language, Sam," Dr. Robert said as he leaned back, removing the disposable speculum and attaching a new one. After repeating the process on Sam's other side, he returned to the counter. "Danielle, would you please unbutton his shirt?" he asked while jotting down some more notes on his clipboard.

She didn't even question the command. Sam cursed, thrashing furiously as she exposed his chest. Ethan whistled, eyes sparkling in amusement, and no one had the decency to comment on it. Sam's cheeks burned.

As the doctor made his way back to the bed, he focused on Sam's stomach. "I'm just going to feel your abdomen for anything unusual." He pressed down, ignoring Sam's objections. "This doesn't hurt, does it?"

"Like you care?" Sam would be damned if he answered any of their questions.

The doctor sighed, moving up to his chest, where he used the stethoscope to evaluate Sam's heartbeat. Then, he met Sam's gaze. "It's obvious you're not feeling well. Believe it or not, we care very much about your health—we're literally depending on it. What can you tell us about your condition?"

Sam shook his head. "Go to hell!"

The doctor couldn't hide his disappointment. "Have it your way." He wandered back to his clipboard. After a brief pause, he glanced over at Ethan. "Danielle and I may need your help with the next procedure. Would you mind?"

The bastard grinned. "Not even a little."

 **SPN**

Fifteen minutes later, Sam was physically and emotionally spent. Drenched in sweat, he languished on the bed with his face turned away from his tormentors. Danielle was trying to console him, gently patting his arm, but he tuned her out—if she wasn't going to help, he didn't want her pity. At this point, he didn't want anything but his brother.

After thoroughly washing his hands, Dr. Robert once again rifled through the supply cabinet. Sam shuddered. How much more of this would he have to endure!?

"It's gonna be all right," Danielle assured him. "The hardest part's over."

When the doctor returned to the bed, he carried a tray stand that contained a syringe, several tubes, and some other supplies. Sam felt like vomiting, so he closed his eyes and didn't move.

"I just need to draw some blood," the doctor warned him in a soothing voice. "Then, we'll take some X-rays, and you'll be done." When Sam refused to acknowledge him, he went ahead with the procedure, tying a tourniquet around Sam's arm. After cleaning the crook of Sam's elbow with an alcohol wipe, he prepared the syringe. "Make a fist." Sam blatantly refused, so Danielle retrieved a foam stress ball and forced it into his palm.

"Ethan, can you make him squeeze that?"

"Absolutely."

Sam cringed as the son of a bitch enveloped his hand with both of his own. He squeezed hard enough to make Sam hiss in pain. A needle pricked his arm, and more tears slid down his face. After what felt like several minutes, the needle was extracted, a bandage was applied, and the tourniquet was removed. Ethan released his hand while Danielle ran her fingers through his hair.

"Very good," the doctor purred, glancing up at Campbell, who never stopped watching. "I'm going to rush these samples to the lab. Danielle will see to the X-rays. Emmett in Radiology's expecting you."

Campbell nodded. "Thank you, doctor. Any idea when we'll have some results?"

"They shouldn't take too long to expedite. I'll keep you informed."

"Much obliged."

For a moment, no one moved. Sam could sense their eyes scrutinizing him in cold satisfaction. They had completely stripped him of his dignity, and despite Danielle's tenderness, not even she felt a whiff of regret. It was beyond humiliating. Honestly, a part of Sam wanted to curl up and die.

Eventually, Campbell broke the silence. "I'd like to limit the number of personnel privy to the boy's identity."

"Of course," the doctor agreed. "We're always equipped for discretion. Danielle?"

The nurse dutifully shuffled away from the bed.

Sam tensed, alarm coursing through his veins. Not again! He opened his eyes, watching in horror as Danielle returned with a large black pouch and a… and a…

Oh, God…

A rubber ball attached to leather straps.

"No…" Sam whimpered. "Please…"

"Ssshhh…" Danielle carefully slid the ball into his mouth and buckled the straps behind his head. "So much easier than duct tape." She pulled the pouch over his head and tightened the drawstrings around his neck. "You ready?"

A moment later, the bed began to move.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I'm not going to lie… This chapter killed me. I hope it wasn't too intense…_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	6. The Recovery Room

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm taking some creative liberties with this chapter, inspired by Alfred, Lord Tennyson's poem, 'The Lady of Shalott.'_ _Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

Ultimately, at the end of the day, the Men of Letters were nothing if not librarians, which meant they kept very thick files with thorough records of every imaginable subject—at least in the supernatural field. They were organized, too, with an impressive card catalog that helped Sam find whatever he needed in a matter of minutes. Nerd. Dean, on the other hand, was out of his element. He remembered learning about card catalogs back in school, but he never really paid much attention. On the rare occasions when he actually put some effort into his homework (usually after losing a bet to Sam), he always managed to convince a librarian to retrieve his books for him. Then came the internet.

Unfortunately, the Men of Letters were wiped out long before the rise of modern computers, which left Dean to conduct his research the old-fashioned way… with the Dewey Decimal System… if that's even what it was…

It took awhile, but eventually he dug up a file that looked promising. "Hey, check this out…"

Castiel had been wandering around the bunker library, marveling at its vast collection, but now he returned to the central table and leaned over Dean's shoulder. "The Mirror of Astolat?"

"Yeah…" Dean motioned for the angel to sit beside him. "It's Arthurian. Apparently, according to…" He checked the front of the file. "Morton Lowrey… Astolat was an ancient city not far from Camelot where some guy named Sir Bernard lived with his sons, Tirre and Lavaine, and his daughter, the lily maid, Elaine. Somehow, Elaine acquired a magical mirror that would reflect shadows of the world—but not just our world. Every world, from every reality. And she would use it for inspiration to weave these gorgeous tapestries."

"That was a Golden Age for magic," Castiel interjected.

"Well," Dean continued. "It turns out, Elaine fell in love with Sir Lancelot, from the Knights of the Round Table. Sadly, he didn't love her back—apparently, he was a real dick—and the poor girl died of a broken heart. Now, get this… The moment her heart broke, the mirror cracked. It shattered to pieces—which opened fissures between alternate realities. So, if you know what you're doing, you can use the shards of the mirror not only to glimpse different realities, but also to travel between them. Of course, most of the shards were lost, but Elaine's brother, Sir Lavaine, salvaged one, and after he married Dame Felelolie…" Dean awkwardly stumbled over the name, "he had it framed, and passed it down to his daughter, who passed it down to her daughter, and so on, for centuries."

"Until?"

"Until 1885, when the Men of Letters realized it wasn't just a legend. Apparently, they were recruiting wealthy, prominent members of society—cause secret organizations always need financial backers—and they just so happened to recruit a judge named Warren Granger, who just so happened to marry Lily Bertram, who just so happened to be descended from Sir Lavaine. She owned the mirror. When the Men of Letters identified it, they considered it too dangerous for civilian hands."

"Why? Sir Lavaine's family obviously knew how to safeguard it."

Dean shrugged. "Maybe they were jealous. Anyway, the Men of Letters sent Morton Lowrey to confiscate it, and Lily refused. She couldn't bear to give up her most treasured family heirloom. So Warren made a compromise. Lily would keep the mirror, but she would allow the Men of Letters to study it. She would even show them how to operate it. Morton agreed—after all, the bunker wouldn't be built for another fifty years, so it's not like they had a better place to stash the thing. It was a good deal. Everyone was happy."

"So where's the mirror now?"

"Good question." Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. "As the years went by, Warren became more and more obsessed with the supernatural. He spent too much time with the Men of Letters, neglecting both his responsibilities as a judge and a husband. Lily felt abandoned, and she blamed Morton Lowrey for stealing Warren away from her. So… she took the mirror, and she ditched town. They were never able to locate her. They don't even know if she remained in this reality. The mirror was lost. It could literally be anywhere."

Dean had been so excited just to find a relevant file that he barely registered the mirror's disappearance… until that moment. Son of a bitch. None of this meant anything if they didn't have the mirror to rescue Sam. Why couldn't they ever catch a break?

Castiel glanced from the file up to Dean, brow furrowed, eyes heavy with concern. "This could be it. Even if the mirror didn't make it to the bunker in our reality, it might have in other realities. So, it stands to reason that Sam's kidnappers could have had access to the bunker on their end, where they could have found the mirror from their reality, which would have given them access to our bunker."

It was an interesting theory, but how would it help them get Sam back? Dean didn't care about anything else. Except… "Why would they even take Sam in the first place? If they have access to the bunker on their end, they should be the good guys, right?"

Castiel abruptly looked away. "We don't know that, and the multiverse contains too many realities for us to speculate." Climbing to his feet, the angel gestured at the card catalog. "You should keep researching. Perhaps the Men of Letters kept other files on alternate realities. Check for alternate dimensions, parallel realities, and parallel dimensions. Maybe they used different key words for the same subject. In the meantime, I will scour the globe in search of the mirror. Just because Lily hid herself from the Men of Letters doesn't mean she hid herself from angels."

Dean thought back to a hunt in Illinois where people were being cursed with the truth, all thanks to an ancient deity named Veritas. Initially, Dean thought an angelic weapon—Gabriel's Horn of Truth—was to blame, and so he called in Castiel for help. The angel searched the entire city for the horn, top to bottom, all in a matter of seconds. Maybe finding the mirror wouldn't take as long as he feared… assuming it was still in their reality.

"Please, Cas… You have to hurry."

Their gazes met, and they shared a moment of intense urgency. Sam was all by himself, trapped in a world of strangers—potentially hostile strangers—and with the trials taking such a toll on his health, he was dangerously off his game. He might not be able to protect himself. He _needed_ his family. Now.

There was nothing left for Cas to say. In moments like these, words were never adequate. Consequently, the angel made a quick, silent departure, and Dean found himself not only terrified, but painfully alone.

 **SPN**

Once the X-rays were taken, Sam was rolled on his bed to a recovery room at the end of a long, isolated ward. Danielle assured Campbell that it was a restricted zone, reserved for their most confidential specimens, which meant no one would have the opportunity to view Sam's face without the proper clearance. Satisfied, the old hunter agreed to remove the hood from Sam's head, but they left the gag in his mouth as a precaution until he was safely in his new quarters.

The recovery room was really just a cramped, windowless cell with no furnishings. The outer door opened into a sally port where a second inner door made of ballistic glass allowed guards, doctors, and other compound personnel to observe their prisoners with minimal risk. The glass even had built-in speaker holes so they could communicate.

Once Danielle, Campbell, and Ethan rolled Sam through the two doors into his new cage, they proceeded to remove the gag, the collar, and the shackles around each of his limbs. It was the most freedom he had in hours, maybe days, and a small voice in the back of his mind urged him to retaliate, but he was still too depleted, and the twinkle in Ethan's eye was just daring him to misbehave. By now, Sam's neck and arms were deeply bruised, his wrists were scratched and bloody, his jaw was stiff and sore from the oversized rubber ball, and everything below the belt ached from Dr. Robert's rough exam. Combined with his supernatural flu, Sam's condition left him in a daze, and if he tried to fight, he would only give Ethan another excuse to torment him. Honestly, he just wanted to sleep.

"Oh, Sam," Danielle murmured, directing her attention to his damaged wrists. "You should really be more careful or you might hurt yourself." How was she able to affect such a sympathetic manner while still remaining complicit with his abduction? Her hypocrisy turned Sam's stomach. "I'm just going to grab some towels from the bathroom." She made her way through an open threshold near the back corner of the tiny cell. At least Sam would be given access to some facilities, but the lack of a door meant he couldn't lock himself inside.

"Just so we're on the same page," Campbell barked, as commanding as ever. Sam wondered where he stood on the family tree, especially compared to Samuel. "You'll be allowed off the bed to stretch your muscles. You can even take a shower, if you're so inclined. But these are privileges, not rights, and if you abuse them, they will be taken away. Don't tempt us to force a catheter on you, son, because we will if necessary."

Sam's blood ran cold.

A moment later, Danielle returned with two wet towels that she wrapped around each of Sam's wrists. The pressure stung, and he flinched as she began to clean his wounds. "Mr. Campbell, with your permission, I'd recommend the use of medical cuffs from now on, instead of shackles. His skin is obviously fragile."

Ethan laughed, which made Sam flush. He tried to sit up, but Ethan immediately pushed him back down.

"Let your nurse do her job." Ethan positioned himself at the top of the bed and leaned down on Sam's shoulders, holding him still as Danielle produced some kind of ointment from the pocket of her scrubs, along with a roll of gauze dressing. Sam clenched his teeth as she proceeded to bandage his wrists.

"There," she said when she was done. "All better." She cupped her hand against his cheek, smiling warmly, even when he batted her arm away.

Ethan clucked his tongue. "None of that, pretty boy." He quickly snatched Sam's wrists, yanking them both over his head and squeezing tight enough to elicit a pain-filled gasp from his victim. "You know, you should really be thanking the lady for treating you so well."

Sam grimaced. "I'm not a child!"

"Could've fooled me."

Campbell rolled his eyes. "All right, Ethan, that's enough. Leave him alone. I said you could have him when we're done with him, but until then, he belongs to me. Understand?"

Sam's heart skipped a beat. "What!?"

"Yes sir," Ethan said, dropping Sam's wrists.

Energized by a fresh wave of fear, Sam scrambled off the bed and backed himself into a corner, holding his arms up defensively. "What the hell do you mean he can have me!? Take me home!"

Campbell shook his head. "Sorry, Sam. As a rule, we don't release specimens from the compound. It's too dangerous. We keep them, or we kill them, and that's just policy." Ethan smirked, while Sam processed this crushing revelation.

" _I hope you're comfortable,"_ the bastard's words echoed in his memory. _"Consider this your new home. It's where you'll spend the rest of your life."_

They were serious.

Crap!

Campbell turned to regard his sadistic subordinate. "Can I trust you to guard him appropriately? I don't want him unsupervised, and I don't want anything—anything—to interfere with our ongoing evaluations."

Ethan nodded. "You can trust me, sir. I promise."

"Good." Campbell glanced back at Sam. "You did very well today, son. I'd recommend you get some rest before we start again tomorrow."

Sam shook his head, at a loss for words. Start again tomorrow? After everything they put him through today, what else could they possibly have in mind?

Danielle offered him one last smile. "Don't worry, Sam. I'll be back in a little while with your dinner. Let's see if we can't put some extra meat on your bones."

"I'm not hungry." He wasn't lying—he was too sick and too anxious.

The nurse sighed. "You'll eat what I bring you," she said sternly. "Or we'll administer a feeding tube." Sam felt her threat like a slap to the face. Son of a bitch.

"All right, let's go," Campbell said, ushering his minions back out through the ballistic glass door, which slid shut behind them with an air of finality. But then, while Campbell and Danielle continued on into the hallway, Ethan remained in the sally port, turning to watch Sam like a fish in a glass tank.

"I'm not going to lie," he sneered at his captive—his voice surprisingly clear through the speaker holes. "I can't wait till they're done with you, Sam. Ever since I first laid eyes on you, back when we were kids, I've wanted nothing more than to dunk your pretty head in a tub of water—and now that you're here, I can finally get away with it." His face was lit with anticipation. "Let's hope you're as normal as you claim, pretty boy. Cause I've been waiting a long time to drown you, and it's going to be the best day of my life."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I would love some feedback on my description of Sam's recovery room. Can you all picture it? Let me know!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	7. Depravity

**SPN**

Being told directly that his guard wanted to kill him—had dreamed of killing him for at least fifteen, maybe twenty years—did nothing for Sam's nerves. Of course, it was obvious that Ethan didn't like him, but having a grudge against someone was very different from a childhood fantasy of drowning him. Ethan wasn't just a dick, he was a psychopath—and if Sam's counterpart from this reality picked up on that, no wonder he made himself scarce. But where the hell was Dean?

Not wanting to engage with his tormenter, Sam turned his back on the glass door and took a deep, calming breath. He had to get out of here. There had to be a way out! Even if he couldn't make it back to the bunker, even if he never returned home, he still had to escape the compound, or he would die—and it wouldn't even be a noble death, trying to save lives—it would be a senseless murder. Sam shivered at the thought. He could bear sacrificing himself, like a martyr, but he never wanted to be a victim.

Eager for some kind of refuge, Sam sidled through the open threshold into the bathroom. It was a tiny and sterile alcove, with no windows or decorations—not even a mirror. Stainless steel grab bars (for prisoners with disabilities?) were mounted on every wall, as well as the low ceiling, which Sam realized would allow his captors to handcuff him anywhere they pleased. A ceramic toilet sat in one corner, with a shower hose across from it, and nothing but a small drain on the floor. No doors, no curtains… No privacy at all. But at least his captors were kind enough to provide soap and several towels, all folded up on the counter by the sink. How thoughtful of them.

Sam scoffed, quickly relieving himself before spending a good ten minutes at the sink, trying to scrub away his shame and humiliation without actually exposing himself. Then, discouraged and fatigued, he curled up on the floor and weighed his options. Maybe he could use the shower hose to strangle Ethan. But honestly, what were the odds of that? Even if he could trick the bastard into the bathroom, he would still have to overpower him, and right now, Ethan was in far better shape. But even if he pulled it off, then what? Ethan wouldn't enter his cell without shutting the glass door behind him, which meant Sam would still be trapped. Strangling a guard with a shower hose would definitely be considered an abuse of his bathroom privileges—Campbell would happily have him strapped to a bed with a catheter and a feeding tube for the rest of his life. Death might actually be preferable.

After a few more minutes, Ethan yelled into the room. "Quit hiding, Sam! Mr. Campbell wants you supervised! If you're not out in thirty seconds, I'm coming in, and trust me, you won't like the consequences!"

Groaning, Sam climbed miserably to his feet and reluctantly made his way back into Ethan's line of sight. He glanced through the ballistic glass barrier to meet his guard's piercing blue gaze. On the bright side, at least he wasn't Lucifer… but when he smiled, it was just as disturbing.

"You're always so shy, pretty boy. Why is that? Why are you so different from your brother?"

"Shut up!" Sam snapped. He had no interest in conversation, especially not with Ethan, and especially not about his family. He didn't want to think about what Dean might be like in this reality—he didn't want it to complicate his relationship with his real brother back home. But of course, Ethan didn't care about what he wanted.

"You know, Dean and I are best friends," he casually remarked, making Sam stiffen. "We grew up together, studied together, trained together… We're practically family. That's why you surprised me when you didn't recognize me. I can't imagine a world where we're strangers. It's just… so far-fetched."

Sam turned away from the bastard, slowly putting the pieces together. Ethan and Dean were best friends. Ethan wanted to kill Sam, but he didn't think he could get away with it—which made sense. If Dean found out, he'd be pissed. Sam couldn't help but wonder if his counterpart ever sensed Ethan's hostility, and if he ever mentioned it to anyone. Would they believe him? From what he could tell so far, the Sam in this reality wasn't even considered human, while Ethan was obviously well-respected. But why!?

"You hold Dean back," Ethan continued. "He's the finest hunter I know. He could be our chief one day—he could even surpass your grandpa, and old Samuel's a damn legend! I'm telling you, pretty boy, Dean is just… magnificent." The admiration in Ethan's voice made Sam's skin crawl. "And then there's you." His tone grew dark and venomous. "Sweet, precious Sammy, always in need of his family to protect him. If you weren't such a wimp, if you cared as much about the business as you care about 'academics,' maybe you wouldn't be such a damn target, always getting into trouble. You're a liability, Sam—a piece of trash—and when you ran away, I thought, finally! Dean can focus on his career! But no. He's too distracted now, sick with worry for his beloved baby brother." Ethan scoffed. "If only he could see you for what you really are. A worthless freak."

Sam flinched at the derogatory label. "You know, killing me won't change anything. I'm not the guy you're really mad at—he's the one Dean cares about, and he's still out there."

"Yeah, I know," Ethan agreed. "But that's okay. Killing you will be therapeutic. I might even resuscitate you so I can kill you again. That's the beauty of drowning your victims, pretty boy. It doesn't have to be a one-time deal."

Something in his voice—the experience—made Sam shudder. "You've done it before, haven't you?" He glanced back around to observe Ethan's smug satisfaction.

"Oh, plenty of times," he confessed. "Usually not with anyone worth mentioning. It's safer to select people that no one'll ever miss, but on occasion, I do like to push my limits. See what I can get away with. It's impressive, really. And a lot of fun."

Just when Sam thought he couldn't hate the bastard more than he already did. "What, torturing monsters not enough for you?"

Ethan shrugged. "Hunting monsters… What can I say? It's my job. And after awhile, every job gets a little tedious. You have to admit, it's always nice to have an outlet where you can blow off some steam, right?"

Sam shook his head. "There's something wrong with you."

Ethan laughed. "Yeah, that's what they all say. But they're just victims. I don't blame them for being such poor sports about it." He took a step forward and pressed his hand against the glass, gazing in at Sam with hunger in his eyes. "Do you have any idea what it's like? Holding a girl's head above the water, basking in her fear as she stares down at her reflection, sobbing helplessly… and then feeling her struggle as you plunge her head in…"

"Shut up," Sam said, backing away.

"There's nothing like it," Ethan continued. "On good days, when I'm very patient, it can take over an hour to finally drown her—and that's really what it's all about, pretty boy. Spending that quality time with her at the very end of her life, knowing you're the last person who will ever touch her, who will ever speak to her, who will ever kiss her. It's very… intimate. And when she's gone, having her limp body in your arms… That's a treat in itself. I can't wait to experience it with you."

By now, Sam's back was pressed up against the wall in the far corner of his cell. "That'll never happen." If he could beat the devil… he had to beat this lunatic.

Ethan licked his lips. "Who's going to stop it, pretty boy? You?" He laughed. "Oh, it will happen all right. Hopefully, it'll happen soon."

 **SPN**

Needless to say, Sam was actually relieved when Campbell and his colleagues returned the next morning with looks of fascination on their faces. He wasn't able to get any sleep with Ethan watching, so he spent the night curled up on the floor with his face buried in his arms. (He did manage to stomach a bowl of soup when Danielle came to check on him, but it took all the discipline he had, and it didn't help whatsoever.)

Presently, from his place in the corner, Sam watched warily as Campbell, Ethan, Danielle, and Dr. Robert gathered around him—he noticed the doctor holding a clipboard, and Campbell holding some printed radiographs, probably from his X-rays. Sam could easily guess what they revealed—Enochian sigils carved directly on his ribs, courtesy of Castiel.

"Well," Dr. Robert said, gazing down at Sam, who didn't bother to get up. "How are we feeling today?" Sam glared at him, refusing to answer. The doctor sighed. "You know, son, you're not doing yourself any favors by this stubborn attitude. Please, cooperate. Let's figure this out together."

"Why?" Sam retorted. "When you're done with me, you're going to let Ethan kill me. Why should I help you?"

A very brief flicker of surprise crossed the doctor's face, but if he felt any degree of disapproval, he quickly stifled it. Meanwhile, Danielle glanced at Ethan, who simply shrugged, as if he had no idea what Sam was talking about. Figures.

"No one's going to kill you, son," Campbell calmly interjected. "Not as long as you prove useful, and it's starting to look like you could be very useful." He pulled a sheet out from the top of his stack and showed Sam the radiograph. Sure enough, it was a crystal clear image of his ribcage—along with Castiel's handiwork. "Care to explain this? Someone chiseled your bones with exquisite detail… Why? And more importantly, how'd you survive the procedure? Was it some kind of spell?"

Sam hesitated, mustering his best poker face while considering his options. Of course, he didn't trust these bastards with his safety, no matter how useful he might be—Ethan was too obsessed with the idea of drowning him. The only hope Sam had was to get as far away from here as possible, as quickly as possible. And if they were so desperate for answers, maybe he finally had some leverage to escape.

Taking a deep breath, Sam met Campbell's gaze. "I've got nothing to say to you. Any of you. Just looking at you is nauseating. If you want my cooperation, then go get Dr. Visyak. I'll speak to her. No one else."

Campbell narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Dr. Robert and Danielle exchanged baffled looks. Ethan crossed his arms. They weren't expecting Sam's demand, and they weren't sure what to make of it. For a long, drawn-out moment, they didn't say a word.

Then, Campbell broke the silence. "Dr. Visyak's a very busy woman. She's the director of research and development at the compound, and we can't ask her to waste her time interviewing a specimen."

Sam clenched his jaw. He didn't like the word 'specimen' anymore than 'freak.' Disgruntled, he dropped his gaze and gave them all the silent treatment.

After another lengthy pause, Campbell grunted. "Very well. Have it your way. But I'm warning you, young man. If we call in Dr. Visyak, and you still refuse to cooperate, the consequences will be severe. Trust me. You won't like them."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _How's that for some insight into Ethan's character? Let me know what you think!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	8. Answers

**SPN**

Twenty minutes later, Sam was perched stiffly on the foot of his bed, where he watched Campbell and Ethan through the glass barrier. They were standing in the sally port, looking back at him in equal frustration. Dr. Robert and Danielle were both gone, having left to summon Dr. Visyak, but the hunters considered Sam their project, their property, and they weren't thrilled with his request—but they didn't have a choice. They couldn't make Sam talk.

Finally, the outer door opened, and the familiar, refined face of the Purgatory native glanced inside. She seemed bewildered, but when her eyes found Sam's, her expression softened. Back when he first arrived at the compound, after she brought him to that examination room, she not only offered him her sympathy, she chased out Ethan. She was obviously a kind woman, and Sam realized this was a crappy way to thank her. Unfortunately, he was out of options.

"Hello, Sam," Dr. Visyak said gently, stepping up to the glass barrier. "I'm surprised you asked to see me. We barely know each other. At least not in this reality."

Time to play his hand. "Back home, we had a very close, mutual friend. You're a professor of medieval studies, and I was privileged to hear you share your thoughts on the _Divine Comedy_. You were very insightful, especially when it came to Purgatory." There was an edge to his voice that wasn't lost on the woman. She kept her composure, but a slight flush colored her cheeks. Fortunately, no one else noticed. Ethan was too busy rolling his eyes.

"Great. So you're a nerd in both realities. That's just typical."

Dr. Visyak quickly glanced at Campbell. "Perhaps you should wait outside. I'll try to reason with him, but it's clear he won't be receptive with either of you in the room." The hunters weren't privy to her secret, and suddenly, she shared Sam's eagerness to get rid of them. Good. She was hiding her identity, and she didn't want Sam to expose her. He could work with that.

Campbell nodded. "Very well. But whatever happens…" He pointed at the glass. "Keep the door locked. Don't take any unnecessary risks."

"Oh, believe me, sir, I won't."

"Good." Campbell turned to scowl at Sam. "Keep your end of the arrangement, son. Or else." With that, he motioned for Ethan to follow him out into the hallway. Ethan shot Sam one last glance, and there was no mistaking his contempt, but then he was gone, and Sam was alone with Dr. Visyak. Thank God. He couldn't hide his relief.

Dr. Visyak, on the other hand, was hardly amused. "I don't know what game you think you're playing," she hissed at him. "But it won't do you any good."

Sam shrugged. "If I'm going down, you're going down with me."

Conflicting emotions warred across her face. She could sympathize with his predicament, but she didn't appreciate his threat. "What exactly do you think I can do for you, Sam? We're in a high-security compound. I can't just release you. And if I try to bust you out, we wouldn't even make it to level 4."

She probably had a point, but why should that stop her? Sam raised his chin, treating her to his most assertive expression. "Well, you better think of something, or else Campbell's going to hand me over to Ethan, who's going to torture me and drown me." He was pleased to see her flinch. "If I die in this reality, which heaven do I go to? Mine or theirs? Am I ever going to see my family again? My real family?"

She hesitated, seemingly torn. "Honestly? It depends on which reaper you attract." She sighed, and suddenly, her whole demeanor changed. The fear, anger, and indignation flowed away, and sorrow filled her eyes. "I never asked to enter this world. I gave it my allegiance a long time ago, but sometimes these humans shock me with their cruelty. From afar, they appear so vulnerable… So small and innocent… But up close, they're monsters too."

Sam softened his approach. "Please. You're the only one who can help me. I just want to go home."

She glanced down, wringing her hands. "I can't promise anything. You're literally asking the impossible. But if I agree to try, you can't hold it against me if I fail. Please. I'm begging you. Don't tell them where I come from." When she raised her eyes, they contained such despair that Sam nearly apologized.

"I won't," he assured her.

She took a deep breath, flustered and overwhelmed. "You can imagine what they'd do to me if they learned the truth…" She wiped her mouth, then steadied herself. "Okay. I guess we're in this together." She forced a smile, but it was hardly comforting. "I'll need something to tell Mr. Campbell when I leave this room. He's expecting answers."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, but… it would really help if I knew what the hell is going on. No one's told me a damn thing. I don't even know what I'm doing here."

She scoffed—not at Sam, but at his treatment. "I suppose I could fill you in, but it's a long story."

"Well, I've got nowhere to be, and I deserve an explanation, don't you think?"

"Of course…" She paused, collecting her thoughts. "Where do I even start? They found you in the bunker, didn't they?"

"Yes."

"So you know about the Men of Letters?"

"Not much," Sam confessed. "A demon—a Knight of Hell—destroyed them back in 1958."

"Yes, that happened here as well," Dr. Visyak said. "And their demise formed a power vacuum."

Sam frowned. "A power vacuum? What do you mean?"

"They were the ruling class. They governed the whole country."

"Are you serious?" Sam didn't even know how to process such a wild claim. "Not in my reality. They were a secret society." He cocked his head. "Wait a minute… If they governed the country, does that mean…? Do people here know about the supernatural?"

It was Dr. Visyak's turn to frown. "Why wouldn't they?"

"Cause… You know… Most people think the supernatural's just… make-believe. Superstition."

Dr. Visyak's mouth fell open. "What, are they blind?"

"No…" Sam shrugged awkwardly. "Just… sheltered, I guess. Anyway… So what happened?"

Her lips tightened, as if the idea of a 'sheltered' population was deeply troubling—and maybe it was. Sam never gave it much thought. Would the world be better off if everyone knew the truth? Not necessarily. Not if Campbell and Ethan were anything to go by.

"After the Men of Letters fell," Dr. Visyak finally continued. "The two mighty Campbells—your grandfather and his cousin, Richard—rose to power. They organized the Prime Hunting Syndicate that protects the land… for a price. Under their leadership, hunting became a lucrative business—and to this day, the Syndicate has the monopoly. If you're caught hunting without an official license, the punishment is severe."

Ethan's words echoed in Sam's mind. _"If you cared as much about the business as you care about 'academics,' maybe you wouldn't be such a damn target… When you ran away, I thought, finally! Dean can focus on his career!"_

A pit formed in Sam's stomach. "So… what happens if people can't afford to pay?"

Dr. Visyak understood his concern, and she simply shook her head. "What do you think happens, Sam? It's regrettable, but justifiable. According to the Campbells, why should hunters risk their lives without compensation?"

"But…" Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. "At least… At least tell me hunters can volunteer their services?"

"No," she replied. "The Campbells consider that bad form. Hunters who 'volunteer' risk losing their licenses—and they're lucky if that's all they lose. The Syndicate's policies are not to be taken lightly."

"So, in other words, if you can't afford to pay, you're screwed?" Sam despised this reality. "Give me a break. That's a protection racket. How's it even legal?"

"Well, it wasn't my idea," Dr. Visyak assured him. "But overall, it worked very well for a long time. The Syndicate tipped the scale in favor of humanity. They had monsters and demons on the run. Hunters became celebrities. Your mother was practically a warrior princess. When she began dating your father, it was quite an affair—it made the news and everything. Mr. Winchester was just a legacy, and your grandfather never liked the Men of Letters. He considered them incompetent—they were destroyed, after all. He was furious when she eloped with Mr. Winchester, but she didn't care. She was a free spirit."

Sam dropped his gaze. "She died when I was a baby."

"Yes," Dr. Visyak concurred. "In a house fire. You weren't even a year old. Mr. Winchester was devastated, and so was your grandfather. They reconciled their differences, and they sought vengeance, side-by-side. The demon responsible for Mary's death lived to regret it before they plugged him with Samuel Colt's famous gun."

Sam blinked. "What? Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Son of a bitch."

If John and Samuel killed the yellow-eyed demon so quickly and easily, it changed everything. Sam wouldn't be stabbed by Jake, so Dean wouldn't sell his soul. He wouldn't shed blood in hell, and the first seal wouldn't be broken. No angels. No apocalypse. No Lucifer.

"Your grandfather passed away in '88, when you were were five-years-old," Dr. Visyak continued. "Your father took his place as chief of the Syndicate, and you and your brother were raised like royalty. Dean flourished. He's a valiant hunter, and everyone loves him. But you…" She trailed off nervously. "Well, the gossip columns all agree you're camera shy and mild-mannered. You're combat trained and highly capable, but you would rather read than hunt."

"Do you know why I—uh, he—do you know why he ran away?"

"Not personally," she replied. "But there's always plenty of gossip, and judging by our own conversation right now, I'm willing to wager a guess. I think, as Sam grew up, he developed a strong moral compass, and like you, he didn't appreciate the Syndicate's policies. Of course, the Winchesters and the Campbells are trying to keep it all hush-hush, but some people say Sam's living on the road, hunting free of charge. Can you imagine the scandal?"

Figures. Even in this alternate reality where John had the resources to give Sam everything, they still clashed with each other. Some things never changed.

Wait a minute…

The Winchesters and the Campbells are trying to keep it all hush-hush?

Are? Present tense?

The Winchesters?

Plural?

Sam blinked, chest tightening. "Dr. Visyak… Is my dad… John Winchester… Is John Winchester alive in this reality?"

She jumped, startled by the question. "Very much so. He's the chief of the Syndicate."

It was like a punch to the gut. Sam wrapped his arms around his stomach and swallowed painfully. His dad was alive. And not only that, he was a freaking mob boss. Sam didn't know why, but the idea made him more homesick than ever.

"Oh, Sam," Dr. Visyak whispered, as if reading his mind. "I'm so sorry."

"He died seven years ago."

"You've had a hard life, haven't you?"

He forced a half-hearted smile. "Well, I was no prince growing up, if that's what you mean." He didn't hold it against his father. Not anymore. John did the best he could in unbearable circumstances, and at the end of the day, he was there for his children when they needed him the most. Plus, he did a remarkable job sheltering them from people like Ethan.

Sam took a moment to compose himself, and then he sighed. "None of this explains what I'm doing here."

"I warned you it was a long story," she gently reminded him. "But like I said, the Syndicate worked very well for many, many years, tipping the scale in favor of humanity. In 2007, we began construction on this compound, which opened for business in 2010. Hunters began collecting monsters for the sake of research, hoping we could study them and find new ways to eradicate them."

Sam furrowed his brow. "You—?"

"I didn't ask to be here," she interrupted. "I dedicated my life to cancer research. I was trying to help these people. But when the Syndicate offers you a job, you don't turn it down. Well, humans don't—the pay's too good—and I couldn't afford to make waves. It might have roused their suspicion. So yes, I work here, and I try to keep a low profile. It's not easy…"

Sam nodded. "So when they use the word 'specimen…'"

"They're referring to monsters."

Sam caught his breath. He was trapped on a compound with freaking monsters! Which meant… "Oh, let me guess. The Syndicate's been kidnapping and torturing monsters for three years; they cried out to mommy dearest, and now she's pissed."

Dr. Visyak looked surprised. "So you know about Eve?"

Crap.

Eve, the mother of all monsters, crawled out of Purgatory shortly after Sam escaped the cage. Castiel and Crowley had been working together, kidnapping and torturing monsters to gain access to Purgatory so they could harness the power of its occupants. Castiel was trying to wage a war against Raphael, and needed all the resources he could get his hands on. Crowley was just being a dick.

"Yeah," Sam muttered. "I know about Eve."

As far as anyone could tell, only one thing could kill the primordial bitch. Ashes from a phoenix. Not easy to scrounge up. Castiel had to send them back to 1861 so they could find some in the past. But if this reality never had an apocalypse, then Castiel wasn't around to facilitate any time travel. The Syndicate would be virtually weaponless.

"Eve's creating an army," Dr. Visyak went on. "She can turn humans into monsters with the touch of her hand. It's all we can do to hold her at bay, and we won't last forever. We're scrambling to come up with solutions. The Prime Hunting Squads assigned to the bunker are plundering alternate realities to search for phoenix ash, which the Campbells say will kill Eve. And my job is to research ways to counter Eve's recruiting methods. If possible, I'd love to reverse the process. Turn monsters back into humans. But at the very least, we need to formulate some kind of immunization."

"Sure," Sam agreed. "But what's that have to do with me?"

"Everything," she claimed. "Sam… We have reason to believe you're the key. We have witnesses—reliable witnesses—who testify under oath that Eve touched you—tried turning you into a monster—and not only did you escape, you remained human."

"What—?" Sam felt the blood draining from his face. "I'm…?"

Son of a bitch.

Granted, he was immune to the Croatoan virus, but that was only because of the demon blood… Wasn't it? Could he really be immune to Eve as well?

"No…"

"It's true," Dr. Visyak assured him. "That's why we need you here. If we can determine how your body withstood her touch—her infection—maybe we can develop a vaccination, or even a cure."

Sam began to shake. "And if you succeed? If you find a cure, and I'm no longer useful?"

She didn't answer, but she didn't have to. Her expression told him everything. If they found their cure, Sam would be superfluous. Campbell would give him to Ethan, and he would die.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	9. Stockpile

_**Author's Note:**_ _Here's a nice, extra-long chapter to emphasize the inhumanity of the compound's personnel. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

Sam wasn't sure how long he sat on the foot of his bed, staring blankly at the floor, trying to process everything he just learned. It was overwhelming, and he couldn't bring himself to move, or he might collapse. His head was spinning, his heart was pounding, his palms were sweaty, and he was shivering precariously. He didn't want to die, but the stress combined with the first trial left him feeling weak and pathetic. He had to think. If he was going to survive this, he had to be smart about it.

Meanwhile, Dr. Visyak watched him nervously. No one could deny he was sick, and that must have baffled her. After all, how could he repel Eve's infection if he was still prone to the flu? "Sam," she eventually said, breaking the silence. "It's been over an hour, and Mr. Campbell's not a patient man. If you want me to help you escape, then we need to buy some time so I can strategize. I suggest you convince those people you're invaluable."

"How?"

"Lie to them," she urged. "Now, I'm not performing your exams, but I am analyzing the results, and I've seen your X-rays. Those symbols on your ribs? I know exactly what they are, and I can imagine what gave them to you. Naturally, I can't tell anyone—that would raise too many questions, and I'm not prepared to answer them—but I can warn you, these fools don't believe in angels. They don't have the slightest fear of God. If you tell them the truth, they'll assume you're mocking them. Whatever you do, Sam, don't make them angry."

He groaned. Oh, he was no stranger to the art of lying, especially when it came to the authorities, but right now, with stakes this high, he knew it would be a dangerous game.

 **SPN**

Will Campbell currently occupied the conference room nearest Sam's restricted zone, where he sat at the head of a long executive table featuring rich mahogany veneer, cable ports, and matching leather chairs. It was a comfortable, spacious environment with a decorative false ceiling, recessed lights, and a massive window that overlooked the landscaped grounds. For such a cold, sterile facility, it wasn't all austere, but of course, these fancier sections were strictly reserved for the top brass, and not just anyone could use them.

When Dr. Visyak knocked on the door and entered the room, Campbell was busy reviewing copies from Sam's file. As he turned his hard gaze up to acknowledge the woman, even from a distance, she could see the sharp focus in his emerald eyes. "You took your time," he remarked with a hint of impatience.

"Yes sir," she replied contritely, dreading his displeasure. "I was building a rapport with the boy. He's under the impression he has nothing to lose, and why should he cooperate when he'll get nothing in return?" Campbell's face darkened, but Dr. Visyak quickly spoke over him. "I made a strong case for him to adjust his attitude, and it turns out he responds much better to gentle persuasion than harsh threats."

Campbell grunted. After all, Sam was just a 'specimen,' and no specimen required the courtesy of persuasion. "What can you tell me about his ribs?"

"Now _that_ is quite the story." Her voice carried such fascination that Campbell motioned for her to sit immediately to his left. "In Sam's reality, there is no Syndicate. Hunters often live on the road, and they don't get paid. Because they lack our resources, they always seem to have the disadvantage. Sam's grandfather died before he was born. The demon that killed his mother eventually killed his father, and now, Dean's the only family he has left. They're devoted to each other, and Sam will do whatever it takes to get home, just to be with his brother."

Campbell sneered. "Well, that might actually be useful. Go on."

"Yes sir. As it turns out, the demon who killed Sam's mother wasn't actually there for her. He was there to visit Sam in his nursery."

"Visit?" Campbell asked.

"Yes. Apparently, Sam's something called a vessel—one of the rare individuals with the capacity to contain some of the most powerful entities in all of hell. The demon's plan was to groom Sam for possession, so his boss could walk the earth. He failed—thanks to Dean and their father—but still, demons have been stalking Sam his whole life. You can imagine he was desperate for a way to hide. Those marks on his ribs? They conceal him from the bad guys. That's all."

Campbell showed no sign of disappointment, but scrutinized his colleague thoughtfully. "How'd he acquire them?"

"He said they were a gift from Loki, the Trickster of Norse mythology, and with all due respect, sir, that's irrelevant. We can't assume the Loki in our reality would ever deign to help us. As Sam put it, we're too 'high and mighty.' We'd probably just provoke him. The real question we should be asking is… what makes Sam a so-called vessel? What gives him the capacity to contain entities that normal humans can't? Because the answer to that question might very well be the reason he's immune to Eve's infection."

Campbell nodded, mulling over this new information.

Meanwhile, someone knocked on the door, and Dr. Visyak glanced up to find Dr. Robert waiting for an invitation. Campbell motioned for him to enter the room, and he approached with his clipboard in hand. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, but it's getting late in the morning, and with your permission, I'd like to begin."

"Begin what?" Campbell asked. "I was told we're still waiting for his results."

"Yes sir," Dr. Robert agreed. "It's just… The boy is sick, and we don't know why. It's not influenza—it's not anything I've seen before. I can't make an accurate prognosis, and I don't even know if we can treat it. With your permission, I'd like to prepare for the worst-case scenario. If he's to die, we'd do well to document every detail, and collect a variety of samples to have on file. Just to be safe. The sooner, the better."

It was all Dr. Visyak could do not to grimace. Campbell, on the other hand, smiled.

"By all means," he exclaimed. "Take whatever you need."

 **SPN**

When Sam walked out of the bathroom to find Dr. Robert, Danielle, and the team of hunters who brought him from the bunker to the compound all standing in the sally port, along with Ethan, he froze like a deer in the headlights. This could not be good! The hunters were each gripping their own tranquilizer guns, and Ethan was smirking maliciously.

"Now, Sam," Dr. Robert said, taking charge. "We have a lot to accomplish today, and while I'd rather not drug you, considering how little we know of your condition, I will if necessary. The choice is yours. You can climb onto the bed and lie down, like a good little boy, or these men can sedate you, in which case, you won't be returning to this room, and all the privileges we've given you thus far will be revoked. Do I make myself clear?"

Sam's stomach dropped as Campbell's earlier threat echoed in his mind. _"Don't tempt us to force a catheter on you, son, because we will…"_ He was staring down the barrels of seven tranquilizer guns. If he tried to fight, he would certainly be shot, and as much as he loathed cooperating, he didn't want to make his captivity that much worse.

Crap…

Holding his hands out in a show of surrender, Sam reluctantly glanced at the bed. The thought of voluntarily lying down made his cheeks burn, but what choice did he have?

Dragging his feet, he shuffled over, sat down, used the rails to slide the rest of the way up, and eased his back onto the bare mattress. Immediately, the glass door opened, and the team of hunters descended on him like vultures. Sam cringed, inadvertently locking eyes with Ethan, who gave him a suggestive wink. Several pairs of hands seized his wrists and ankles, strapping on medical cuffs with short chain tethers. The tethers were shackled to the rails, and Sam found himself once again restrained—but at least this time they skipped the collar.

Meanwhile, Danielle approached with the black pouch and rubber ball. When Sam caught sight of the extra encumbrances, he recoiled, shaking his head. "No, please!" The pouch he could deal with, but the gag was unbearable. "You don't have to do that!" He glanced frantically at Dr. Robert. "I promise, I'll be quiet. No one's going to help me anyway. I know that now. I won't make a sound. I swear!"

The doctor motioned for Danielle to wait as he pondered Sam's request. "We have orders to maintain confidentiality…"

"I know," Sam hastily assured him. "And if you have to hide my face, that's fine, but you don't need the gag. I mean it. I'll behave. I got on the bed for you, didn't I?"

"You did!" Dr. Robert smiled appreciatively. "And I'm very pleased to see your attitude improving. We're making progress, aren't we? Well, then…" He paused, beaming down at his helpless charge. Sam caught his breath, almost daring to hope—especially when Ethan frowned. But then the doctor clucked his tongue. "No, I don't think it's appropriate to indulge specimens. I'm sorry, son, but you don't get a say in the matter, and you'd do well to accept that."

Sam's heart skipped a beat. "What? No, wait—!"

Danielle stepped forward and crammed the rubber ball through his lips, forcing his jaw open. He jerked, pulling wildly on his cuffs—they were soft, but secure. A moment later, Danielle buckled the straps behind his head, making sure they were tight, and covered his face with the pouch. Sam bellowed angrily, but there was nothing he could do.

 **SPN**

The pouch and the gag were only required for the journey from the recovery room back to the exam room, and then they were removed. The blinding spotlight, combined with his aching jaw, made Sam wince, and he moaned as Danielle wiped his lips with a paper towel. "You bastards can all rot in hell."

Ethan propped his hands on the bed rail and leaned over him with a sneer. "That any way for a precious thing like you to speak?"

Sam couldn't help himself. He filled his mouth with a thick wad of saliva—mixed with bloody mucus—and rose up to spit furiously in Ethan's face. Of course, his satisfaction was short-lived. Ethan retaliated in a heartbeat, slamming the back of his hand across Sam's cheek and knocking him flat against the mattress. But damn, it was worth the pain. Lying in a daze, with his hair falling in his eyes, Sam watched as Ethan stormed over to the exam room sink—passing a tall, portable, closed case cart as he went.

Sam tried not to think about what might be contained behind those stainless steel doors. Instead, he heard himself taunting his captors. "You better hope I'm not contagious!" He wasn't sure what he was expecting from such a gibe. Presumably, a compound of this caliber would make provisions to prevent the spread of disease, but as far as Sam could tell, they weren't all that concerned. In fact, Dr. Robert rolled his eyes.

"I wouldn't worry about that, son," he said while offering blue latex gloves to each of his accomplices. "You made it through the security scanner when you arrived on the compound, and if you were carrying any form of contagion, it would have raised the alarm." He made his way over to the bed and looked down his nose at Sam. "It's puzzling… You're sick, and thus far, the etiology eludes us." Sam shied away from his rapt attention. "I do so love a good mystery… But first, let me remind you—for the last time—how vital your cooperation is. We wouldn't want my work to be sloppy, now would we? Because, mark my words, son, your resistance might frustrate me, but you'll only be hurting yourself. And if you continue to act out—spitting, biting, et cetera, et cetera—I will have your teeth extracted. Understand?"

Sam groaned, bracing himself as the doctor reached down to brush his hair from his face. He just had to survive the next few hours. Dr. Visyak promised to help him, if he could just make it through the day. Right? He tried not to dwell on his odds of actually escaping… They were less than favorable, and he couldn't afford to doubt himself, or he might lose hope. He had to believe… if he could escape the cage, he could escape this. He had to. For his brother. For Kevin. For the world.

Unfortunately, no amount of feigned optimism could prepare him for Dr. Robert's agenda. While Ethan finished cleaning himself up, the doctor and Danielle began setting out a variety of specimen containers. Sam watched nervously, trying to ignore the other six hunters who stood ready to assist. Why were they here? Dr. Robert managed to perform the "preliminary inspection" with just Danielle and Ethan, so what did he have planned now that required extra help?

Someone knocked on the door and one of the hunters—the man who drove from the bunker to the compound, Paul Russell—excused himself. He was only gone for a few seconds; when he returned, he held a sophisticated DSLR camera. Sam squirmed at the sight. "Oh, you've got to be kidding."

Paul smirked. "Let's get this show on the road."

Someone grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair and yanked his head up so Paul could snap a picture of his face. The shutter clicked loudly and the flash was blinding. Sam cursed, tugging on his restraints as Paul circled around him, taking more shots from every angle. Click. Click. Click.

Meanwhile, Danielle made her way over with a medical tray that she instructed one of the hunters to hold. It supplied some of the specimen cups and other materials, such as a pair of scissors. "Please bear with us, Sam," she said as she picked up the small tool. "We're just covering our bases. That's all." With the hunter still holding his head, Sam was helpless to prevent Danielle from fingering his hair. She took her time, riffling around for a suitable strand, and then she cut it off. She retrieved a specimen cup from the tray, dropped in the hair sample, and put it back down.

"Thank you, Danielle," Dr. Robert said as he arrived on Sam's other side. "Would you please hand me a capillary tube?" She obeyed, offering him a tiny glass rod, roughly the size of a stirring straw. He glanced at Sam, but addressed his captor. "Would you please hold his head down?"

The hand gripping Sam's hair pulled while someone's palm clamped down on his forehead, pinning him to the mattress. Dr. Robert leaned over and forced apart Sam's eye lids. "Try not to move," he advised as he gingerly lowered the tube into the socket. Sam froze, catching his breath, watching in alarm as the instrument absorbed his tear fluid. It didn't hurt, but it still appalled him.

"That should suffice," Dr. Robert said, extracting the tube. With Danielle's help, he transferred the fluid into an empty vial. Then, he took a fresh tube and slid it under Sam's tongue, like a thermometer, where he held it long enough to collect his saliva. Sam felt his cheeks burning and he tried twisting away, but the hands clutching his head were too strong. "Settle down," the doctor cooed as he transferred the saliva into another vial. "Everything's all right. Just try to relax."

"Easy for you to say," Sam grumbled.

"It'll be over soon." He traded the vial for a cotton swab. Then, while Danielle pried Sam's mouth open, he took another sample from the back of Sam's throat, making him dry heave. Son of a bitch!

"Didn't we already do this yesterday?" Sam complained as Danielle helped the doctor bottle the mucus. "Why can't you just leave me alone!?"

"Sshhh…" Danielle set the container on the tray and procured a package of laboratory filter paper. Tearing it open, she removed a circular sheet and brushed away the hand on Sam's forehead. By now, he was flushed with a thin layer of sweat, and Danielle gently wiped his brow. "It's always better to have too much than not enough." Sam clenched his fists.

"Okay," Dr. Robert said as Danielle contained the filter paper. "I'd like to perform some biopsies."

Sam's eyes widened. "What—!?"

"Please remove his shirt and roll him over."

"NO!" Sam shouted, all but panicking.

"And we're done with his mouth," the doctor mentioned as an afterthought. "Go ahead and shut him up."

"Gladly," Ethan growled, snatching up the ball gag from the counter where Danielle left it. Sam cursed, thrashing frantically as the hunters worked together to stuff his mouth with hard rubber. Once it was securely buckled, Ethan cinched the straps tighter than necessary, so they pinched Sam's skin. "How's that feel, you little brat?"

Satisfied, Dr. Robert took the tray and carried it over to the closed case cart, where he and Danielle began to store their sample collection. Meanwhile, Paul Russell retrieved the collar and quickly fastened it around Sam's neck. Once it was chained to the bed, offering no slack for Sam to sit up, the hunters went on to remove the medical cuffs from his wrists and ankles. Sam grunted, kicking his legs and straining his arms, bucking with all the strength he had, but the collar disabled him. He was no match for his captors.

They proceeded to unbutton his shirt, wrestling him out of it like an unruly child. Click! Just when Sam thought his plight couldn't get worse, someone seized the damn camera and photographed his bare chest.

"Mmpphhfff!"

Click! Click! Click! Click!

Tears filled Sam's eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so helpless.

When the photographer had enough frontal shots, the hunters flipped him over with practiced ease. The collar briefly strangled him as it slid around his neck, chafing his skin. He was forced to lie with his face turned out to the side, allowing drool to spill from the corner of his mouth. He fumed, biting down on the gag in frustration.

Click! Click! Click! Click!

More shots were taken of his back while the hunters reattached his medical cuffs. Suddenly, a hand caressed the old scar where Jake Talley stabbed him all those years ago. "What have we here?" Ethan asked, sounding blatantly surprised. "Hey, check this out!"

Click! Click! Click!

"What is it?" Dr. Robert crossed over to the bed, and Sam squirmed uncomfortably as another hand pressed down on his back. "Fascinating… An injury like this would have severed his spinal cord. He shouldn't be alive, much less walking. So… the plot thickens."

Ethan's face appeared in Sam's line of sight. "You're a little freak, aren't you?" He chuckled, ruffling Sam's hair. "Campbell's gonna love this."

And with that, he leaned in to plant a kiss on Sam's forehead, basking in the boy's distress.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _A special thanks to_ _ **Sammysmissingshoe**_ _for always being there to brainstorm. Your help has been indispensable, and I am so very grateful! :-)_

 _Now where is Dean!?_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	10. Pain

_**Author's Note:**_ _I realize this story's a little intense… It comes from a deep-seated fear I've had since childhood of human experimentation, so I guess I'm using_ Supernatural _as an outlet for an old phobia. Poor Sam._ _ **Speaking of which, if you're squeamish around needles, consider yourself warned…**_

 **SPN**

The two-way mirror overlooking the exam room required the lofty observation room to remain dark, or else Sam would see his spectators through the window (at least when he was lying face up). Not that he _had_ very many spectators. Campbell was adamant about maintaining secrecy. Therefore, Dr. Visyak found herself watching alone, a look of disgust warping her pale face.

Biopsies were simple procedures, frequently employed to help doctors diagnose cancer. A local anesthetic would be used to dull the target area, and tissue samples would be removed straight from the body for analysis. Easy. Low risk. Pain free (more or less).

Except… Dr. Robert wasn't using a local anesthetic—why waste the resources? He was performing three biopsies, back-to-back, with no regard for Sam's objections, and he couldn't care less about the ethical dilemma. After all, the end justified the means. In the war against Eve, Sam's physiology could turn the tide. It could save humanity. It could save the world!

But Sam was just a child (at least in Dr. Visyak's ancient eyes), brought here against his will, and to top it all off, he was sick. Innocent and frail. He didn't belong anywhere near the compound, much less its monstrous population. He belonged in a hospital. And the longer Dr. Visyak dwelled on his predicament, the more determined she was to spare him. If she could.

Presently, Dr. Robert gripped a trephine—a surgical instrument with a cylindrical blade—and carefully selected a patch of skin on Sam's upper back. The boy squirmed, understandably agitated. To collect a full-thickness sample, Dr. Robert had to punch a hole all the way to the subcutaneous fat beneath the dermis, and without anesthesia… Yes. It would hurt. While Ethan carried the tray for Danielle, his hunting buddies flocked around Sam and held him down, restricting his movements. Dr. Robert made the perforation, and the boy flinched, obviously miserable.

Suddenly, the door opened behind Dr. Visyak, and Will Campbell entered the room. She didn't bother to acknowledge him, and thanks to the darkness, she didn't bother to hide her expression. Instead, she continued her silent vigil, watching as Danielle contained the skin sample while Dr. Robert sutured Sam's injury.

"Doctor…" Campbell crossed the distance between them and stood at her side, gazing down into the exam room. "Shouldn't you be working?"

She couldn't just ignore a superior, but neither could she confess her thoughts, so she faked an existential crisis. "He recognized me from his reality…" She filled her voice with quiet awe. "He called me a professor of medieval studies. Can you imagine? Me, in a room full of students? It really makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

He scoffed, having little patience for deep thoughts, but he didn't rebuke her, and that was something.

Meanwhile, Danielle began to clean Sam's skin for the muscle biopsy while Dr. Robert prepared the needle. It looked like they were aiming for the middle region of the trapezius. This one shouldn't be as painful. Just a few pricks. Still, Sam was breathing heavily, clenching his fists and pulling on his cuffs. Dr. Visyak couldn't blame him.

"I'm surprised the chief's not here," she commented, trying to sound casual while gauging her colleague's response.

"Why should he be?" Campbell asked, unfazed—at least on the surface. Dr. Visyak, a monster herself, had an ear for heart rates, and Campbell's heart skipped a beat. "The specimen's not his son. Not really. Why should he waste his time inspecting the treatment of a duplicate? Especially when he trusts us to do our jobs?"

Dr. Visyak shot the hunter a sidelong glance. He was full of it. "Naturally… I just assumed he'd want to see his son's physiology for himself. The specimen's a duplicate, yes, but they still share the same DNA." She wasn't personally acquainted with Mr. Winchester, but she knew his reputation. He loved his children, and he was fiercely protective. If Campbell notified him of Sam's presence, he would be here.

Down in the exam room, Dr. Robert proceeded with the biopsy. The needle sank deep into Sam's back. Ethan was smiling, and Dr. Visyak was grateful she couldn't hear their conversation.

"We don't pay you to make assumptions, doctor," Campbell said in a low, defensive voice. "We pay you to conduct research. Let me worry about the chief."

"Yes sir," she whispered, bowing her head. Damn… If she had to guess, the lying bastard wasn't making his reports. More than likely, Mr. Winchester had no idea Sam was on the compound.

They watched in silence for several minutes. Dr. Robert extracted the needle, and Danielle bandaged the entry wound on Sam's back. Then, they proceeded to contain the muscle sample. Next up was the bone marrow biopsy. Dr. Visyak stiffened as Paul Russell procured a pair of trauma shears from Ethan's tray. He snipped the waistband of Sam's jeans and pulled them down just far enough to expose the Posterior Iliac Crest of Sam's pelvic bone. When Dr. Robert was ready, he began palpating the area. Danielle offered him a sterile fine-tip marker, and he carefully drew some landmarks directly on Sam's skin.

Dr. Visyak couldn't stomach this. Bone marrow biopsies were never pleasant, and without anesthesia, they might as well be torture. "Excuse me, Mr. Campbell," she said, backing away from the observation window. "I should return to the lab." Without waiting for a response, she spun on her heel and fled.

 **SPN**

As Danielle smeared an antiseptic solution over the back ridge of his pelvis, Sam couldn't help but whimper through his gag. Yes, he had a high tolerance for pain, and these medical tests would never compare to the cage, but it wasn't just the abuse. It was also the humiliation, objectification, and helplessness. Most of all, it was Dean's absence. His brother wouldn't be able to find him, much less rescue him. He was alone.

The hunters began repositioning themselves around his body, holding down his rump, his legs, and his upper back—taking care to avoid his injuries. They didn't mind hurting him, but right now, their jobs were to prevent him from moving. Meanwhile, Dr. Robert approached Ethan to restock the tray in his hands. From Sam's angle, he didn't have a clear vantage point to see which tools they'd be using, but that was probably a good thing.

"Okay, Sam," Dr. Robert said in a soothing voice. "This shouldn't take more than a few minutes. We're going to extract some bone marrow—the spongy tissue inside your bone. You'll experience some sharp pain, and I strongly suggest you hold still. Take deep breaths, and think pleasant thoughts."

 _Yeah, right…_

Ethan jumped at the opportunity to tease him. "Just pretend you're taking a nice, warm, relaxing bath."

" _I've been waiting a long time to drown you…"_

Sam shuddered, trembling despite himself. His natural instincts were to fight, to go down swinging, to make life as difficult as possible for these sons of bitches, but in this case, resistance would be counterproductive. As Dr. Robert mentioned earlier, he'd only be hurting himself. And since he couldn't do anything to stop them, he might as well calm down, endure the pain, and minimize the damage. Dean would understand, right?

If only he could stop shaking…

"Here we go," Dr. Robert said, making a small incision at the entry point. Compared to the skin and muscle biopsies, it barely stung, but they were just getting started. Sam bit down on his gag, bracing himself. A moment later, he felt the massive biopsy needle slide through the entry point… felt it brush up against the bone. Crap.

Dread coursed through his body, and his breathing hitched. He squeezed his eyes shut, and for some foolish reason, he pictured Lucifer. Maybe focusing on the cage would make this ordeal seem mild by comparison.

Dr. Robert began advancing the needle almost like a corkscrew, twisting vigorously to drill through the bone.

Nope.

The pain was excruciating, and Sam couldn't hold back a muffled sob.

"It's okay," the doctor purred, feigning sympathy. "You're going to be just fine." He paused… then advanced… then paused… then advanced. Sam felt the needle grinding deeper and deeper… felt his heart racing… his muscles spasming… his nerves screaming…

"Take it easy, love," Danielle advised. "We need you to lie still."

The hunters were holding him steady, so his obedience didn't matter, but all the same, he found himself struggling to comply for fear of making it worse.

"Aww…" Ethan crooned. "You're so cute when you're submissive, Sam."

Once the needle was firmly in place, Dr. Robert made several adjustments with his tools. Sam couldn't see what he was doing, and the suspense left him breathless. How much longer?

A sudden pressure preceded a piercing sting. The pain was blinding, and the hunters were all that kept Sam from writhing in agony. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and terrified whimpers escaped his gag.

"Good boy," Dr. Robert said, obviously pleased. "Let's get one more sample."

 _No! No! No! No!_

The needle sank in deeper, and Sam's world began to spin.

Another stab, and everything went dark.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	11. Into Position

**SPN**

"Damn it, Cas!" Dean was scowling as he opened the bunker door for the angel, who just arrived back from his search for the mirror. "What the hell took you so long? I've been waiting for-freaking-ever!" It was going on nine o'clock in the evening, over two days since Sam's abduction. Two. Days. Dean was beside himself. He gave up researching when he could no longer read—the words on the pages were getting blurry, no doubt from fatigue—and then he spent hours shooting targets in the subterranean gun range. It was cathartic, but ultimately, futile. Nothing would appease him till he had his brother back.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas apologized, leading the way down the stairs into the control room. In his left hand, he carried an antique hand mirror. Good. He might not have been expeditious, but at least he was successful. "Naomi has two of her best agents searching for me. I had to avoid them—a task that proved… cumbersome."

Dean tensed, plagued by resent, confusion, and doubt. Naomi. Thanks to her, Cas betrayed him. Nearly killed him. He could still picture his best friend towering over him, cold and detached, his angel blade glinting in the dark. And for what? "Let me get this straight… Sam's been kidnapped, and your priority is protecting the angel tablet? From angels?"

Why? Angels were dicks, but it's not like they would use the tablet against themselves. Would they? If saving Sam required Cas to surrender the damn thing to get his siblings off his back, was that too much to ask?

"Dean…" Cas gently set the mirror on the table of the world map. He faced his friend with a torn expression, regret welling up in his clear blue eyes. "When I spared your life in that crypt, I rebelled. Again. This time against Naomi herself. Even if I were to relinquish the angel tablet, she will never forgive me, and I am no good to you—or Sam—if I am dead."

Well, he couldn't argue with that. Dean sighed, shoulders slumping. When did their lives become so damn complicated? "You're right. I'm sorry. It's just… Sam."

"We'll get him back," Cas promised. "We have the mirror now. We just need to use it."

Dean nodded, glancing down at the ancient artifact. Its glass surface was blotchy and tarnished, obviously old and delicate, but elegant and charming. Arthurian. "Luckily, we have instructions. Before she ditched her husband, Lily showed Morton Lowrey how to use the mirror, and he took careful notes. The only problem is I can't read the incantation. It's an obscure Anglo-Saxon dialect, and there's no way I can pronounce any of it."

"Allow me," the angel offered. Clutching the mirror, Dean followed him into the library where they took a second look at the old file. Dean pointed out the incantation, and Cas squinted. "I must say, the English language isn't what it used to be. A pity." He glanced up at the hunter. "If you'd like to bring any particular weapons on this rescue mission, now would be a good time to retrieve them."

 **SPN**

Working for the Prime Hunting Syndicate meant serving on active duty for months at a time, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Dr. Visyak owned a house in San Francisco, where she stayed while on leave, but more often than not, she lived on the compound. As the director of research and development, her private quarters were very generous—more like a luxury apartment. On the southwest corner of level 10, she had a magnificent view of the surrounding wilderness, which she never took for granted. After all, she belonged in Purgatory.

Night had fallen. The dining hall was closed. Sleep was encouraged. Dr. Visyak, however, had other plans. She could not leave Sam to the mercy of Will Campbell, and if that meant risking her job, her life, her freedom, then so be it. Why? She owed the boy nothing. He actually threatened to expose her if she didn't help, which should have provoked her, but she couldn't ignore his heartbeat. One thing was certain… He'd been to hell and back… Literally… And yet, his heart remained gentle, so different from her colleagues. Imprisoning him was a crime.

In fact, if the chief wasn't apprised of the boy's presence, Dr. Visyak could make a case against Campbell, at the very least for negligence. Mr. Winchester might even advocate on the boy's behalf.

Then again, maybe not. Dr. Visyak didn't know the chief. He could be as indifferent as everyone else. Sam was from an alternate reality. He wasn't _really_ the chief's son, and by experimenting on him, the Sam from their reality would be spared. Mr. Winchester might appreciate that, for his son's sake. Asking for his help would be a gamble, and Dr. Visyak didn't like the odds. One mistake could cost her everything.

Taking a deep breath, she ventured into her master bathroom—a beautiful space with an ornate vanity, a marble floor, and a chandelier above the jacuzzi. She didn't deserve any of this. Hell, she didn't even deserve her body. The real Eleanor had been a kind, simple woman; a loving mother; a conscientious maid. Her life had been stolen from her, and Dr. Visyak could never justify that. Gazing at her reflection, she felt a deep pang of remorse.

Then, from the medicine cabinet, she procured two potent sleeping pills. They would subdue her host, allowing her to step out of her body for several hours without fear of Eleanor waking up. Invisible, she could prowl around the compound, find Campbell, possess him, and release Sam. Easy enough, right? No one would ever question Will Campbell. He was Richard's son, and Richard was Samuel's second-in-command.

The two founders of the Syndicate were both gone now, making John Winchester and Will Campbell their successors. Mr. Winchester might be chief, but he married into his position. He wasn't technically a Campbell. His children were, thanks to Mary, but he was not. In fact, some factions still viewed him as a legacy for the Men of Letters, and they mocked him for it. Most hunters despised the Men of Letters, considering them incompetent, and Mr. Winchester would never have the respect that Mr. Campbell enjoyed. The command, yes, but not the respect.

So if anyone could help Sam escape the compound, it would be Mr. Campbell. And if Dr. Visyak had anything to say about it, as an invisible monster with the ability to possess humans, Mr. Campbell would unwittingly comply.

 **SPN**

After curfew, the library in the Syndicate bunker could be a quiet, peaceful refuge. The sentries kept themselves to the control room, and with everyone else in their dorms, Gwen had free rein of the place. She might not be the leader of her squad, but as Will Campbell's daughter—as Richard Campbell's granddaughter—she enjoyed certain privileges that were denied to others.

Since becoming the base of operations for their mission to find phoenix ash, the library had been redesigned to promote discipline, productivity, and strength. Bookshelves still lined the walls, but the armchairs, board games, and decorative embellishments had all been removed. The tables were arranged to facilitate work flow, ensuring maximum efficiency, and several fans were set up to combat the stale air—but they weren't particularly effective. Gwen blamed it on the constant interdimensional travel. The mirror always left residual energy that somehow interfered with the library's air circulation. Needless to say, her dorm would have been more comfortable, but when her thoughts ran wild, she craved the calm more than her family's wealth. She craved order, structure, and simplicity, not chaos, confusion, and moral ambiguity.

More than anything, she missed Sam. As cousins, they all grew up together. The Campbells, the Winchesters, and a few other favorites from renowned hunting families—like Ethan. Most of the scions flocked around Dean, and not just because of his birthright. He was genuinely admired for his skills and gallantry. Gwen, however, always clicked with Sam, despite their differences. He longed to read while she longed to hunt, but deep beneath the surface, they both desired one thing. To rid the world of evil.

Was that why Sam left? To fight the good fight, away from the Syndicate? Gwen would never forget the day he confessed his reservations about the family business.

" _Sometimes, I think… they profit too much from hunting, you know? If they had the chance to wipe out every last ghost, every last monster and demon, would they actually go through with it?"_

" _How could you even ask that? You know how much your dad hates the supernatural."_

" _Yeah, but… He still makes innocent people pay for protection. How's that fair?"_

" _Well, it's not like they don't have insurance options. Besides, what would you suggest? Hunters are literally putting their lives on the line. Don't they deserve compensation?"_

" _Of course, but no more than cops and firefighters and other servicemen. Why should hunters earn a fortune when they don't? I'm just saying, it's corrupt, and I don't like it."_

Shortly after that, Sam ran away. He didn't even say goodbye, and suddenly, Gwen found herself questioning everything. Why did he really leave? Where did he go? Was he okay? Would she ever see him again? And if he knew about the other Sam they kidnapped from that other reality, what would he say?

Well, that much was obvious. He'd tell them all to go straight to hell. They were officially as bad as Eve.

If only more people would listen to him. But Sam was the baby of the family, and everyone still treated him like Dean's kid brother—a smart young prodigy, but naive and vulnerable. Sometimes, Gwen wondered if she was the only person in the entire Syndicate who took him seriously.

With such thoughts heavy on her heart, she was not prepared for the flickering blue light that spontaneously filled the library.

What the hell!?

The mirror!

But who would be traveling at this time of night?

The portal opened.

Two figures emerged.

And they were not from the Syndicate.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _So… is this getting too complicated, or is everyone following me? How am I doing with the narrative? Let me know! :-)_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	12. Within a Forest Dark

**SPN**

Dr. Robert did not finish collecting samples with the bone marrow biopsy, and they spent the remainder of the day in the exam room, Sam drifting in and out of consciousness while his captors had their way with him. More photos were taken along with everything else, and between the camera's shutter and its blinding flashes, Sam was soon haunted by memories of Lucifer and firecrackers. Eventually, he threw up. His gag was immediately unbuckled, and Danielle scrambled to add his vomit to their collection. Dr. Robert even praised him for it, the disgusting bastard.

When they were finally satisfied, they called for a clean bed. Sam's restraints were removed, and Danielle helped him freshen up. He was given a white, loose-fitting T-shirt, flannel pajama pants, and blue slippers. When the clean bed arrived, he was strapped down, gagged, hooded, and delivered back to his recovery room. Through it all, he no longer tried to fight—he was in too much pain. His lower back felt like… well, it felt like someone drilled a hole through his damn bone.

Thankfully, Ethan was relieved from duty and ordered to get some sleep. Sam didn't recognize the hunter who replaced him, and that alone was a blessing. The recovery room meant safety—it was a refuge from the horrors of the exam room—and without Ethan to harass him, Sam could drop his guard. He remained on the bed—even after they unbound him—lying face down to give his back a much-needed break.

At some point later in the evening, Danielle came to visit him with a bottle of water and a bowl of soup. He would have ignored her, but the moment she threatened him with a feeding tube, he sat up and ate.

"I know it's hard," the nurse gently sympathized. "And I wish I could say the worst is over, but that would be a lie—we still have a long road ahead of us. Please, Sam… You have to understand, this is for the greater good, and we're all so thankful for your sacrifice. You are truly a gift from the gods." The sincerity in her voice made him cringe.

After she left, he lay back down and tried to sleep. Instead, he thought of Dean trapped with Castiel in Purgatory. Was this his punishment for giving up on them? For moving on with his life? After all, why should he be saved when he left them to rot for an entire year?

He told himself he was no good hunting on his own. He had a way of making things worse. Case in point, after the Broward County Mystery Spot, when Dean died (presumably) for good, Sam went on the friggin' warpath. He didn't even hesitate to stab Bobby, on a hunch that he might be an imposter. But where was the proof? Sam didn't even blink! And then, after Lilith sent Dean to hell, he completely lost it. He hooked up with Ruby and started the damn apocalypse.

So when his brother vanished after the battle with Dick Roman, Sam was just trying to do the right thing. Learn from his mistakes. Let Dean go. It was the hardest decision of his life… And it was still the wrong choice! So, yeah… maybe he deserved this.

Eventually, the outer door opened and someone entered the sally port. Sam had turned his face away, and he didn't bother to look up.

"At ease, Trent." The voice belonged to Will Campbell, and Sam caught his breath. The son of a bitch was almost as bad as Ethan. "How's he faring?"

"He hasn't spoken a word," the guard replied impassively. "He managed to eat the soup Ms. Thompson brought him, but other than that, he hasn't moved."

"He's had a rough day," Campbell acknowledged. "Thank you, Trent. I'd like a word with the boy—in private. Why don't you go find yourself some dinner? Report back at 2230."

"Yes sir."

The door opened and closed, leaving Sam alone with the man in charge. This didn't bode well… But he still refused to move, taking every opportunity to express as much defiance as possible—which wasn't easy with a brutalized body.

"Midway upon the journey of our life…" Campbell spoke softly, sadly, and melodically. "I found myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost."

Dante's _Inferno_. Sam didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't medieval poetry. Why would Campbell be reciting Dante? Baffled, he pushed himself upright and peered through the glass at his surprising visitor.

Campbell held a finger to his lips. "Don't say anything. I have the bastard tucked away safely inside his own subconscious, but he might have enough awareness to hear my name if it's spoken aloud."

Could it be? Dr. Visyak? Who else would identify herself with lines from the _Divine Comedy_?

"Is this really happening?" Sam asked in disbelief as she used Campbell's key card to unlock the glass door.

"Let's just see how far we get…" Dr. Visyak, disguised as Will Campbell, ventured into the recovery room and eyed Sam critically. "Can you even walk?"

It was a fair question, but Sam was so desperate to escape, he didn't care if he had to crawl. Thankfully, the thought of freedom—and the possibility of failure—filled him with adrenaline. "Don't worry about me. I'm good to go." Nevertheless, Dr. Visyak helped him slide off the bed. As he put his full weight on his legs, the strain on his pelvis triggered unspeakable pain, and he nearly folded, gasping in shock. The room spiraled, and his stomach churned.

"'Good to go,' my ass," Dr. Visyak grumbled, but they didn't have a choice. They were doing this. Now. "Here. Take these." She procured a bottle of acetaminophen from Campbell's pocket and gave Sam two pills to swallow dry. He eagerly accepted. Then, she brandished a surgical mask and a pair of handcuffs. "You're going to put these on, and you're going to keep your head down. No one will interfere with Campbell moving a prisoner, but you're Sam Winchester. We don't want the wrong person to recognize you and make a scene."

"No problem… Let's just get the hell outta here."

 **SPN**

It was a rush, traveling between realities. When Dean entered the portal, gripping Castiel's arm for guidance, the blue void swept him up like a riptide, and would have drowned him if not for the angel. Thankfully, Cas knew what he was doing—and more importantly, where he was going. They reached the other side without incident, though it took Dean a moment to orient himself. His head was swimming, his ears were ringing, and his legs were shaking. Damn…

In the distance, he heard a voice shouting. He thought it was female, but her cry was faint and obscure. Through the fog, he glimpsed a petite figure with dark hair. Not Cas. Not Sam. Therefore, a threat. Instinct took over and Dean grabbed his enemy with the brute force of a wild animal. He planted her on the floor, flat on her back, then jumped to his feet and aimed his M1911 directly at her head. She froze, holding her palms up in surrender.

"Please don't kill me!"

Meanwhile, a handful of men wearing black uniforms barreled into the library from the control room. As Dean gathered his wits, Castiel squared off against their assailants with typical solemnity. Shots were fired, but none of their weapons were aimed at Dean. Cas had everyone's attention, especially when he blinked from one place to another, knocking people out with the power of his fingertips.

"Holy crap…" the woman muttered as she watched from her position on the ground. Dean glanced at her, frowning as everything came into focus. He recognized her.

"Gwen?"

Son of a bitch.

Gwen Campbell? His cousin? (Well, third cousin.)

She flicked her gaze up to meet his, and there was no mistaking her trepidation. She was scared. Good.

"Dean…"

"Shut up," he barked, and her face paled.

By now, the welcoming committee had been neutralized, and the library was secure. Castiel returned to his friend's side, holding the mirror in the crook of his elbow, and they towered over Gwen together. She quickly glanced from Dean to the fallen bodies of her comrades.

"Are they—?"

"Dead?" he interrupted with daggers in his eyes. "Don't know. That depends entirely on what you bastards did with Sam." She swallowed painfully, staring up at him in horror.

"I…"

"Did you really think you could abduct my little brother, and I wouldn't come looking?" He discharged his gun, aiming several inches to her left. She yelped, startled but unharmed. "No one messes with Sam!" He fired another round, this time aiming to her right. "And if you don't give him back to me in the next thirty seconds, I'm going to start with your friggin' kneecaps." Much to his satisfaction, the woman cringed.

"He's not here," she whimpered, averting her eyes. "They moved him to a compound in Montana. It wasn't my decision!"

Montana? Dean stopped short, taken aback. "Montana!?"

What the hell was in friggin' Montana!?

"Why?" Castiel asked, unflappable as ever, and Gwen was smart enough not to try their patience.

"We're fighting a war against the mother of all monsters—Eve. She has this… ability… to infect people with her touch, turning them into hybrids. We're desperate for a cure, and Sam's allegedly immune, but he's missing. No one can find him. So when my team ran into your brother while ransacking your reality for weapons, we thought we could, I don't know, study him. Learn from him. Save the world."

Dean stared at her with a slack jaw. He knew all about Eve and her "infection," but it never occurred to him that Sam might be immune. Granted, he was impervious to the Croatoan virus, but that was a demon thing. Did it also extend to monsters?

Honestly… What the hell?

"I swear," Gwen nervously continued. "It wasn't my idea. I was outranked."

"Shut up." Dean was struggling to process the implications of her confession. If Sam was immune to the monster virus, and if they carried him off to a compound in Montana for study, what might they be doing to him? He pictured dogs and rats, chimps and bunnies, all confined to small, sterile cages. He would have been pissed if he wasn't suddenly crippled with fear. Sammy…

After a beat, Castiel broke the silence. "We're going to have company in a few minutes. Reinforcements are on their way. I can hear them."

Gwen stared at the angel as if she couldn't fathom what kind of creature he was, which Dean found somewhat reassuring. He had a weapon she had never seen before. But that didn't mean they were in a position to face off against the cavalry. Angels might be bulletproof, but Dean was not. They should probably continue this conversation elsewhere.

He scowled at Gwen. "Get up. I still have a lot of questions, so you're coming with us."

 **SPN**

Against all odds, Sam and Dr. Visyak managed to reach the compound's parking garage without obstruction—Will Campbell's body easily surpassed their expectations. No one even looked at Sam. As soon as they glimpsed the prestigious old hunter, they averted their eyes and got out of his way.

If the sentries on duty inside the garage were the least bit shocked by Campbell's presence (since he arrived on the compound by helicopter), they held their tongues. Dr. Visyak demanded a fully stocked Escalade, and they quickly supplied the pristine vehicle. Sam's wrists were handcuffed to the grab handle in the front passenger seat, and Dr. Visyak took the wheel. Soon enough, they were on their way to the main exit.

"I'll drive you as far as I can," Dr. Visyak promised. "But I need to return Campbell's body to the compound before your guard finds your room empty. I'll give you some cash and a few weapons, but you'll have to find some other mode of transportation. They can track all their vehicles, and trust me, you do not want them to find you. They don't respond well to runaways."

Somehow, that wasn't a surprise. Sam glanced appreciatively at his rescuer. "I can't thank you enough."

"Don't thank me till I get you the rest of the way off the premises." She spared him a brief look of concern. "Honestly, I'm not sure I'm doing you a favor. You're hurt, you're sick, and you're going to be on the run from some powerful and dangerous enemies."

The Syndicate. Eve and her monsters. Ethan. Sam had been a target plenty of times throughout his life, but never this far from home, and rarely without Dean. What the hell was he going to do?

They came to a stop when they reached the massive perimeter fence that circled the compound. Dr. Visyak rolled down the driver-side window and addressed the security guard with all the authority she could muster. "Open the gate. Now."

"Yes sir!"

A shrill buzz authorized their departure. The gate opened, and Dr. Visyak rolled up her window as they pulled forward. Sam immediately felt the tension easing out of his neck and shoulders. They did it! They actually made it off the compound! He was going to be okay, and at this rate, he might even make it back to his own reality! Anything was possible.

"All right, Sam," Dr. Visyak said as they made their way down a dark, lonely road in the middle of the woods. "From here on out, I figure you have three options. You can try to keep a low profile and disappear on everyone, which is probably your best bet. Or you can try to storm the bunker and escape through the mirror, but I wouldn't recommend it. You'll get caught. Or you can try to find help. I have reason to believe Campbell kept your abduction under wraps, so it's possible the chief is unaware of your situation. I have no idea if he'd be inclined to help you—he might just use you as a scapegoat to protect his own boy—but if that's a risk you're willing to take, I'm sure I can find his phone number on Campbell's cell. Dean's too, more than likely. If anyone can get you back home, they can… but the real question is whether or not they'll give a damn."

Sam listened pensively. It was definitely a lot to consider, and he couldn't afford to screw up. "If I don't see you again," he eventually said. "I want you to know how grateful I am. I have no words."

"Just take care of yourself," she replied soberly. "Don't let this all be for nothing."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	13. A Handsome Devil

**SPN**

In order to catch their breaths and get their bearings, Dean and Cas required a safe, inconspicuous refuge where they could speak in private—far from the bunker with its swarm of enemies. Since they weren't the least bit familiar with this reality, their options were limited—and dubious—but they couldn't waste time second-guessing themselves. Therefore, Cas zapped them to the first place they could think of—Garth's houseboat in Warsaw, Missouri. _Fizzles' Folly_.

Thankfully, their realities were similar enough for Cas to find the vessel docked at the same wharf. It seemed unoccupied; the lights were off and no one protested when three strange guests appeared out of thin air. The absolute darkness, combined with the stress of teleportation, left Gwen in a panic—Dean could hear her hyperventilating as he felt around for the light switch.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!"

"What've you got to be nervous about?" Dean growled as he stumbled along the perimeter, sliding his hands across the wall. "There's nothing wrong with snatching people up against their will, is there? I mean, you probably do it all the time, right?" He couldn't keep the scorn from his voice, and when he finally found the switch, he glared at Gwen in pure contempt.

She was cowering in the corner with her wrists fastened behind her back. Unable to look her captors in the eye, she surveyed her surroundings in disbelief. "How did we get here?" She glanced briefly at Castiel. "What the hell are you?"

"Hey!" Dean snapped, making her flinch. He signaled Cas to keep his mouth shut and bore down on his cousin like a vengeful spirit. "Let me make something perfectly clear, Gwen Campbell. You are not the one asking questions right now. We are. And if I were you, I wouldn't worry about my friend here, cause he's not the one thoroughly pissed off at the moment."

"Please," Gwen begged, shrinking in on herself. "I'm not your enemy. I was opposed to Sam's abduction, but had no say in the matter. I was outranked and outnumbered. There was literally nothing I could do."

"I don't care!" Dean yelled at her. "You bastards kidnapped my little brother! My little brother who happens to be sick, by the way!" Her eyes widened in genuine surprise, but Dean hardly noticed. "You're gonna return him to me right now, or I swear to God, when I'm done, there will be nothing left of this damn reality!"

If this Gwen had ever witnessed Dean on the warpath, she had certainly never experienced it aimed in her direction. "I can help you! I can't return your brother to you—I'm just one person—but I can try to help. Taking Sam was wrong—criminal—and I'll do anything to make up for it!"

Dean always considered himself a good judge of character, and he could hear genuine solidarity mixed in with her fear. Well, that was something at least. He glanced over at Castiel, who was scrutinizing Gwen with a stony expression—like Dean's own personal enforcer. No wonder she was scared.

Noticing the desk cluttered with books and notepaper (Kevin's workstation, sans Kevin), Dean found a blank sheet and a blue pen. "You said they took Sam to a compound in Montana? Do you happen to have the address? Or better yet, the coordinates?"

"Of course," Gwen replied, making no move to write them down. After all, her wrists were bound. "But you have to understand, this compound is dangerous. It's designed to contain monsters. The security is state-of-the-art. I don't see how we can breach it."

Dean felt the blood rushing to his face. "Wait just a minute… You're telling me Sam's immune to Eve's infection, so you kidnapped him for study, and took him to a prison designed for monsters!?" He didn't realize he was advancing on her till Cas caught his arm and pulled him back.

"Dean…" the angel warned him. "Save your belligerence for the real enemy."

"Oh, trust me," Dean grumbled. "I've got plenty of belligerence to go around." Nevertheless, he backed off and watched sullenly as Cas edged behind Gwen to sever her restraints. As soon as she was free, she shuffled around to keep both men in her field of vision.

"Who are you?" she asked the angel, voice quivering.

"My name is Castiel," he replied. "The Winchesters are my friends, and I am very—very—protective."

She gulped, glancing back at Dean. "You're friends with a monster?"

He scowled. "No. He's not a monster. He's very powerful, and he deserves your respect, but I'm more of a monster than he's ever been, do you understand me!?" Cas shot Dean an appreciative look, which Dean blatantly ignored. Their turbulent history was none of Gwen's business. "Now where's the damn compound!?"

She scrambled over to the desk, grabbed a pen, and scribbled the information down on a sheet of paper. "Listen," she said as she finished. "If you try storming the place, guns ablazing, you will fail. I don't care how powerful your friend is."

"That's where you're wrong," Dean quipped. "Cas can kill everyone in his vicinity with the snap of his fingers." He was pleased to see her face blanch.

"I'd rather not," Cas protested, holding out his hand for the sheet of paper, which Dean quickly gave him. "I don't enjoy smiting humans." He met the hunter's gaze. "You should stay here."

"What—!?"

"I'll scout ahead," the angel spoke over him. "I'll conceal my presence, and if Sam is there, I will get him out."

Dean shook his head. "No! Cas… Splitting up is always a bad idea, especially on foreign soil. We need to stick together!"

"It's worth the risk," Cas stubbornly replied while setting the mirror on the desk. "I know you're angry, but I also know you care far more about Sam's safety than you do vengeance. I can rescue him quickly and easily, but not if you're there to make a scene." He paused, giving his friend a chance to argue, but what could he possibly say? The angel had a point. "Trust me, Dean. Stay here, keep an eye on that mirror, and I'll be back before you know it, hopefully with Sam."

Dean nodded, and with the flap of his wings, Castiel was gone.

 **SPN**

When Peter Trent returned to Sam's recovery room at 10:30 p.m., only to find the boy and Will Campbell both missing, he immediately notified his leader, Paul Russell. Sam was an asset—a VIP—the single most valuable specimen to ever grace the compound. They couldn't afford to lose him. But neither could they sound the alarm. Their orders were to keep their custody of the boy 'top secret.' Therefore, the two men maintained their composure as they quietly assembled the select few with security clearance, including PHS-14, Ethan Dobbs, Dr. Robert, Danielle Thompson, and Dr. Visyak (who was struggling to wake up).

After reviewing the security cameras, which showed Campbell escorting a masked prisoner from Sam's recovery room all the way to the parking garage, and then from the parking garage to the main exit, and ultimately off the compound, they heatedly discussed their next steps.

"We can't just accept this!" Dr. Robert anxiously exclaimed. "We're still evaluating the boy! We need him back! We have experiments to run!"

Dr. Visyak immediately objected. "Mr. Campbell would not have taken the boy without a good reason. Who are we to question him?"

"Something's wrong," Ethan growled. "I know Mr. Campbell. It's not like him to sneak around. I've got a bad feeling about this."

Paul agreed. They called the sentries on duty at the compound's gate, who confirmed that Mr. Campbell left with one prisoner, and later returned by himself. He was back on the premises. However, when they called the sentries on duty in the parking garage, they were informed that Campbell never checked back in with the Escalade. That prompted an immediate search of the property.

Within twenty minutes, PHS-14 found the Escalade parked off-road in the trees on the east side of the facility. Campbell sat in the driver's seat, unconscious. Needless to say, when they roused him, he was flustered and furious.

"Where am I!? What time is it!? What the hell is going on!?"

The last thing Campbell remembered was sitting alone in the conference room, eating sushi while reading the updates to Sam's file. He was intrigued by the discovery of the old scar on the boy's back, and couldn't stop staring at the photographs. According to Dr. Robert, the scar was from a knife wound that should have been fatal. How was Sam alive?

First, he was immune to Eve. Now this? 'Intrigued' might be an understatement; Campbell was officially obsessed.

But then, his deliberations were interrupted by the conference room door swinging open. He remembered looking up, and that was it. He blacked out. The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the Escalade, surrounded by his subordinates.

Per standard procedure, Campbell impatiently endured the necessary testing to assess his condition. He didn't appear to be possessed, and he wasn't fazed by silver. When they entered back into the facility, the security scanner revealed nothing out of the ordinary. He was in perfect shape—and that inflamed him, especially when he learned of Sam's escape.

"I did not authorize or consent to his release! How could this have happened!?"

"We don't know," Paul confessed. After all, they were on the Syndicate compound, one of the most secure places in the world, second only to the bunker. "But we'll look into it."

"I want that boy safely recovered!" Campbell demanded. "Do whatever it takes! Set up road blocks. Employ bloodhounds. Tracking spells. I don't care. Just get him back!"

"Yes sir."

If anyone noticed the look of anticipation that crossed Ethan's face, they didn't give it the slightest attention.

 **SPN**

When Castiel arrived on the compound, invisible to the human eye, he was both impressed and disturbed by the establishment. It was enormous, clean and clinical, with bright, artificial light and modern (if not futuristic) motifs. Very SucroCorp—Dick Roman would feel right at home.

Sure enough, each level of the facility contained a variety of different enclosures specifically designed for a variety of different monsters—including alphas. As Castiel explored, he couldn't help but think of Crowley and their joint quest to find Purgatory. Not even their dungeon compared to this. Humans could be very… innovative, to say the least.

Sam wasn't here. It didn't take long to search the place, and Sam was nowhere to be found. Had Gwen deceived them? Cas didn't get the impression that she was lying, which left him bewildered. And worried. If anything happened to the youngest Winchester, Dean would be devastated. Maybe Cas should return to the boat to cross-examine their captive.

But not yet. It wouldn't hurt to keep investigating. Knowledge was power, and the more he could learn of this reality, and the better equipped he would be to find and rescue Sam.

 **SPN**

Neither Dean nor Gwen spoke a word as they waited for Cas to return. The silence was deafening, but Dean was in no mood for conversation. Instead, he paced restlessly around the room while Gwen sat in a chair in the corner, wringing her hands.

This sucked. It wasn't the angel's job to pull Sam out of the fire; it was Dean's. He should be there, helping. He wanted to shoot someone—or at least punch 'em in the nose. Hanging back on the sidelines, unable to contribute, had to be the worst feeling in the world. And what the hell was taking so long?

Angry and on edge, Dean jumped at the sound of creaking metal. He spun around, aiming his gun. The door was wide open, but no one stood in the threshold, and he could see nothing but shadows on the other side. Crap.

"Garth?" he hesitantly called out. "That you, buddy? I come in peace…"

Gwen sprang to her feet. "Dean! Don't shoot! He's innocent, I swear!"

The hell?

Dean spared her a brief glance. "Who's innocent?" Her face was wrenched with fear and guilt.

Something moved in the corner of his eye. Dean looked back at the door and suddenly found himself staring at his own face.

Son of a—!

The other Dean was gripping a taser. He didn't share Dean's surprise, and fired without wavering.

Dean felt the electrodes strike him in the chest… felt the current charge through his body… felt his muscles spasm… felt his legs give out…

He hit the ground hard, convulsing pathetically.

"Dean!" Gwen gasped.

"Well, well, well," Dean's voice sneered from afar. "Aren't you a handsome devil?"

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	14. The Heir of the Syndicate

_**Author's Note:**_ _As much as I love Dean, these long chapters with so little Sam are hard to get through... But I promise they're important for the story, and I hope you're having fun!_

 **SPN**

Dean Winchester, heir of the Prime Hunting Syndicate, tried to be a good sport in most situations, but he would never tolerate anyone—anyone!—hurting his family. When he received word from the sentries at the bunker that some version of himself from an alternate reality—along with a magical unknown subject—had popped in for a visit, he was prepared to roll with it. Stranger things had happened, and honestly, considering the amount of interdimensional travel they did themselves, it was bound to bite them in the ass sooner or later.

But then he heard about Gwen's abduction, and his temper flared. Gwen wasn't just his cousin; she was the best friend Sammy ever had, which practically made her a sister. That's why he asked Ethan to join her squad—if she was determined to hunt, someone had to watch her back, and their other cousin, Christian, could be… unreliable. Impulsive. Occasionally a douche. Dean trusted Ethan, and couldn't blame him for dropping his guard in the safety of the bunker. How were they supposed to know a pair of interlopers would follow them home and wreak havoc in their reality?

Thankfully, Syndicate policy prescribed all hunters to receive microchip implants, in case of emergencies like this. When the sentries awoke from some kind of sleeping spell, and when they checked the security footage to observe Gwen's abduction, they simply tracked her chip to find her location. (Sam must have gone through hell to dig his out when he ran away, the stubborn little pest.)

Since Dean happened to be in the area, Christian called him to explain the situation, and naturally, the news pissed him off. Eager to mount a rescue, Dean and his own squad jumped in their helicopter (a massive transport aircraft) and flew straight to Warsaw. They landed a safe distance from the wharf, and proceeded on foot. Dean didn't care that they were breaking protocol, engaging unknown enemies without prior approval, and he didn't care that his father would be livid. Gwen was in danger, and nothing else mattered.

Still, the mysterious, magical unsub made Dean nervous. He didn't like witches, and from the sound of it, they were dealing with a witch. What the hell was this other Dean up to, consorting with a freak of nature? Maybe he required the man's expertise to use the mirror? But why? What did they want? And what did any of this have to do with Gwen?

Until they knew exactly what they were up against, Dean resolved not to kill his counterpart. They might need to question him about his friend. Therefore, the whole squad brandished tasers, along with their standard weapons, as well as mojo bags for protection against witchcraft, and approached the boat— _Fizzles' Folly_ —with the stealth of a SWAT team.

Dean took the lead, followed by his cousins, Mark and Johnny Campbell, then Jo Harvelle and Annie Hawkins, with Ryan Price in the rear. Under the cover of darkness, they climbed aboard and made their way toward the cabin. Dean motioned for Johnny to remain with him, and had the others take up defensive positions. Together, Dean and Johnny stood on either side of the cabin door. At Dean's signal, Johnny reached for the handle and pulled it open. (What kind of idiot doesn't lock the door to their boat?)

Maintaining their positions, out of sight from the cabin's occupants, they waited to gauge their enemies' response.

"Garth?" Dean heard his own voice calling out into the night. It was unnerving, but honestly, Dean had been steeling himself for such an encounter from the moment Olivia introduced them to the mirror. "That you, buddy? I come in peace…"

Dean recognized a hint of sincerity tempering his alarm. Good. At least his counterpart wasn't a ruthless savage. After all, his accomplice could have killed the sentries back in the bunker. Instead, he just knocked them out with a sleeping spell. Maybe they weren't as malicious as he feared… But he could worry about that later. Right now, he had to focus on the key pronoun. 'I come in peace.' Not 'We come in peace.' But 'I come in peace.'

Dean's counterpart was alone.

But not completely alone. By some spark of intuition, Gwen cried out, "Dean! Don't shoot! He's innocent, I swear!"

Well, bully for him.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Dean ducked into the cabin, aimed the taser, and shot his counterpart directly in the chest. He went down hard, dropping his own weapon while convulsing uncontrollably.

"Dean!" Gwen gasped.

He ignored her, scanning the room for the unsub, but sure enough, he was absent. Talk about a lucky break! With Dean's counterpart in custody, they could regroup somewhere secure, deal with the chief's displeasure, and figure out what to do about the missing witch—or whatever the hell he was.

Dean's gaze dropped to his counterpart. "Well, well, well," he said with a sneer, approaching cautiously. "Aren't you a handsome devil?" Of course, they looked exactly alike, but while Dean dressed in the Syndicate's black uniform and tactical vest, his counterpart wore ripped jeans and a military field jacket. He looked clean, but rugged… civilized, but rough around the edges.

"All clear?" Johnny asked from the threshold.

Dean glanced over his shoulder. "All clear."

Johnny signaled the rest of the squad, and they all entered the cabin. While Johnny, Mark, and Ryan descended on Dean's counterpart, searching him for weapons and cuffing his wrists behind his back, Jo and Annie made a beeline for the desk, where they scrutinized the other reality's Mirror of Astolat. Dean left them to it, turning his attention to Gwen, who stood in the corner, shaking her head in shock.

"You all right?" He crossed over to her and gripped her shoulders. "Gwen?"

She met his gaze with a torn expression. "Please don't hurt him—he's not the bad guy—we're the ones at fault."

"What are you talking about?" Dean cocked his head, wondering if she was brainwashed. "Gwen, they kidnapped you."

"Only cause we kidnapped their Sam," she replied, trembling in agitation.

Dean felt his heart stop.

Sam…

He loved his brother more than life itself. The kid could be a nuisance, but he always meant well, and when he ran away, he left a gaping hole in Dean's heart. Occasionally, he would call from some payphone in the middle of nowhere—never in the same place twice—just to check in, so Dean knew he was okay, but no matter how hard Dean coaxed, Sam couldn't bring himself to explain his behavior. He would say things like, "I'm just trying to help people…" But Dean could tell there was more to the story, and it hurt—it really hurt—that Sam didn't trust him with the truth. He would do anything for his little brother.

Son of a bitch…

He was prepared for another Dean from another reality… But he never expected another Sam.

"Christian didn't say anything about…"

"He was ordered not to," Gwen replied. "When we brought Sam back with us from that other reality, my dad made it strictly confidential. He said he'd handle reporting it to the chief, and ordered the rest of us to keep our mouths shut. We had no idea his brother would come looking for him. Nothing like this has ever happened before."

Dean glanced around to stare at his counterpart, who was slowly recovering from the taser. His eyes were icy; his expression hostile. Even on the floor, restrained, and surrounded by enemies, he gave no sign of fear. Just anger and determination. There was something else, too… something Dean couldn't quite put his finger on… They might share the same identity, but there was something fundamentally different about them, beyond their clothes.

He looked back at Gwen. "You kidnapped his brother?" She nodded contritely. "And then, he kidnapped you, so I'm guessing he didn't find Sam at the bunker. So where he is?"

She bit her lip, obviously reluctant to answer. Dean got the distinct impression he wouldn't appreciate the news, and sure enough, when she finally said, "The compound," it was like a punch to the gut.

He could think of several reasons why Gwen's squad would kidnap some other Sam from an alternate reality, but there was only one reason they would send him to the compound. Research. They wanted to learn why Sam was (allegedly) immune to Eve's infection. Un-friggin'-believable.

Dean knew those science-types. They were typically dicks. 'The end justifies the means,' and all that crap. They wouldn't think twice about strapping his brother to a bed and treating him to all kinds of nasty experiments. If Dean had a say in the matter, Sam would never set foot in the compound. Not his Sam; not _any_ Sam.

Unfortunately, he didn't have a say in the matter. He wasn't the chief—and he wouldn't be, hopefully, for a very long time.

"Are you telling me my dad knows about this? And he's okay with it?"

Something about his question made his counterpart flinch. "Your dad?"

Johnny kicked him. "Shut up!"

Meanwhile, Gwen shrugged. "I haven't spoken to the chief myself, but my father said he made the report. It's been a few days. If he wasn't okay with it, I think we'd know by now."

Dean scowled. None of this sat right with him, and he needed to have a long conversation with his father.

"Dean," Annie said from across the room, the mirror safely in her grasp. "We can't be dawdling. His accomplice might return, and we still don't know what we're up against."

Dean hesitated, for once unsure of himself. "You know, this really sucks."

"Dean," Annie tried again, ever the voice of reason.

"All right!" he snapped. "Let's get him to the helicopter. We'll figure out what to do from there."

His counterpart made a face. "Helicopter?"

Johnny kicked him a second time. "I said shut up!"

Winded, but resilient, the man swept his legs around and knocked Johnny off his feet. In the blink of an eye, he launched himself on top of the hunter and thrust his knee into Johnny's throat.

"HEY!"

Mark and Ryan scrambled forward and seized their prisoner by his arms. They forcefully dragged him from his quarry, surprised by his fortitude. For someone who had just been tazed, the guy was shaping out to be a handful.

"Are you all right?" Dean asked sternly as Johnny clambered back to his feet.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now stop being a dumbass."

Johnny flushed, but honestly, he was asking for it.

Meanwhile, Jo was kneeling over the pile of weapons they appropriated from their prisoner. Something had caught her attention, and both Deans watched as she fingered a large knife with a serrated blade and strange etchings along the side. It was a mean-looking weapon, and naturally, Jo was mesmerized. She had a thing for knives, the way Dean had a thing classic cars.

As she picked it up, Dean's counterpart said, "Be careful with that." His voice was suddenly gentle, and when Jo met his gaze, he almost seemed sorrowful. "I went through hell to get that knife. I earned it. I'll want it back, so don't lose it."

Jo's grip tightened around the wooden handle.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

 **SPN**

In order to return Campbell's body to the compound before he was missed, Dr. Visyak could not drive Sam as far as he would have liked. They made their way into a small Montana town, which contained four main roads, two running north-south, and two running east-west. The street lamps all had decorative poles, and the buildings were rustic. Under better circumstances, it would have been charming, but Sam was in too much pain to care.

Dr. Visyak pulled up outside a tavern, which had a packed parking lot. She told Sam to stay in his seat while she rummaged around the back of the Escalade. It was a "fully stocked" Syndicate vehicle, which meant it came with a wide variety of supplies. Weapons. Food. Mojo bags. Lock picks and slim jims. Dr. Visyak hastily stuffed everything she could fit in an olive-colored go bag, along with several wads of cash. Then, she scoped out the parking lot for an inconspicuous vehicle. It took awhile, but the moment she found one, she returned for Sam. She helped him from the passenger seat, and bolstered him as they trudged to his new getaway car. Propping himself against the side, he watched her break into the driver's seat. She tossed in the go bag, helped him get situated, and said goodbye.

"Drive as fast as you can… If I know Campbell, he won't stop hunting you, and he's got a frightening amount of resources. Keep an eye out for roadblocks, and don't stay in one place too long. Good luck, Sam."

"Thank you…"

He hotwired the car and immediately took off for Idaho. It was the nearest border, and he was anxious to put Montana behind him. His back ached—especially his pelvis—and he longed for sleep, but—at least for now—he had the adrenaline to press on.

Hours later, that all changed. A tickle in his throat warned him to veer off into the emergency lane. He came to a stop, parked the car, and switched off the headlights, hoping the night would shelter him.

Then, he doubled over and began to cough.

 **SPN**

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	15. Threats

**SPN**

From what Castiel could tell, this compound contained multiple laboratories throughout the main facility that were each devoted to various research projects. Some required dozens of personnel, while others were staffed by one or two. Most were unremarkable—humans dabbling with alchemy, science, and the supernatural—forces they could barely comprehend, much less control. Sooner or later, their efforts were bound to backfire, which would lead to a devastating cataclysm.

Unless, of course, these humans surpassed the angel's expectations and achieved their goals. If history taught him anything, it was the importance of taking human aspirations seriously. One should never underestimate the pioneering species.

Eventually, Cas came across one laboratory that caught his attention. Like the others, it was a massive room with a white floor, white walls, white overhead catwalks, and a white ceiling. The perimeter was furnished with supply cabinets, bookshelves, a safety station, multiple closed case carts, computers, an oven, a freezer, and a 70-inch TV screen. The inner space was filled with a series of workstations that featured sinks, fume hoods, and base cabinets. Microscopes could be found in every direction, along with incubators, beakers, shakers, sterilizers, balances, and countless other contraptions.

For such an impressive lab, it only serviced one female, and Cas recognized her the moment he noticed her. Dr. Eleanor Visyak. She was the monster from Purgatory that he and Crowley tortured for information. She was the victim whose sacrifice brought Cas victory over Raphael, but cost him everything else. Her death paved the way for the Leviathans to infest the world, which ushered Dean and Cas to Purgatory, which enslaved Cas to Naomi. It all began with Dr. Visyak, and Cas would never forget her face.

What was she doing in such a hazardous environment? For a monster, she had proven herself kind, benevolent, and loyal—at least back home—but Cas highly doubted the "Syndicate" who owned this compound would give a damn. From their perspective, all monsters were the same. Dangerous. Evil. Inferior. Would they tolerate anything remotely supernatural in their ranks? Did they know what Dr. Visyak was? Or had she deceived them?

Eager to investigate, Cas waited for the woman to occupy herself with a microscope. Then, he observed an accordion file folder on a nearby table. It was labeled "Level 6 VIP 83-0205," and contained over a dozen section dividers. Opening it, he removed a thick stack of photographs. Sam.

The first image was a straight-on head shot. Someone's hand was tangled in Sam's hair, holding him steady for the camera. His face was drawn, scared, and frustrated. The next couple of images were side shots. Then came photos of his neck, his chest, his stomach, his arms, his hands, each of his fingernails, his back, several of his scars… and then… Then came photos of his lower body. Everything from the waist down.

Cas was not a human, but the content of those photos made him flush. His heart raced, and for two full minutes, he couldn't breathe. Anger swelled inside him, and he felt an overwhelming urge to smite someone. This was a violation. Sam would never consent to it. Heaven help those responsible if Dean found out.

Sliding the photos back into the file folder, Cas happened to glimpse Dr. Visyak looking up in his direction. He remained invisible, but she must have sensed his displeasure.

Well, as Dean would say, 'Screw it!'

Regardless of any potential surveillance equipment, Cas revealed himself to the monster. She jumped at his appearance, covering her mouth in alarm.

"Where is he?" the angel asked.

"Not here," she replied while alighting from her stool. "He escaped." She backed away, trembling. Anyone who might view the footage of this encounter would mistake her for a normal, terrified human. "Please… I meant him no harm."

Cas narrowed his eyes. "You're lucky I didn't bring his brother with me, or you would be dead right now."

She flinched. Then, after a pause, she whispered, "You should hurry. He has a head start, but they'll catch up to him, and when they do, they will punish him for running."

Cas glared at her, considering his options. Of course, he was relieved to hear that Sam escaped, but now what? The Winchesters were both hidden. Unless they prayed to him, Cas could not find them. And sadly, after two days in this reality, Sam had every reason to give up on prayer. They would need another way to communicate. Perhaps…

" _Hey, Cas, you got your ears on?"_

Speaking of prayer, Dean was calling out to him. Cas frowned, still scrutinizing Dr. Visyak while tuning into his friend's supplication.

" _Listen, if you're in the middle of Sam's rescue, just ignore me. Otherwise, Gwen and I were ambushed by this reality's Dean and five other hunters. I'm in their custody, and we're boarding a helicopter in the parking lot just north of the courthouse. I don't think I'm in danger, and wouldn't mind playing this out, just to see where it goes. We could use the intel. But I need you to keep tabs on my location, so we don't lose track of each other. Stay invisible. These guys shoot first, ask questions later. Cas, be careful."_

Without another word, the angel clutched the file folder in his arms and flew off the compound.

 **SPN**

The helicopter in question was a massive transport vehicle, like something out of the military. It was a good thing the courthouse closed early in the evening, which left the parking lot vacant, or landing would have been difficult.

The rear door opened like a ramp, allowing Dean and his captors to board with ease. They entered the cargo area, which immediately brought to mind the arsenal in the trunk of the Impala. The right-side wall was lined with racks of weapons and other supplies—kegs of holy water, salt, talismans, parachutes, medical equipment—anything a hunter could need. The left-side wall, however, was reserved for built-in bucket seats. Dean was promptly strapped down while his dead cousins, Mark and Johnny Campbell, made their way up to the cockpit. Dean's twin sat directly on his left; then came Gwen and Jo. A strange man with an angular face and shaggy blond hair sat directly on Dean's right, with Annie Hawkins beyond him.

It was disconcerting to see so many familiar hunters—allies who lost their lives far too young. Especially Jo and Annie. Dean never felt particularly close to any of his cousins; he still remembered Gwen calling him a 'reject.' But Jo and Annie had been friends, and he wasn't prepared to contend with their doubles.

As the helicopter began lifting upwards, surprisingly smooth and quiet, Dean's twin gave him another thoughtful glance. "For what it's worth, I didn't know about your brother. If I had been there, I never would have allowed it."

Dean wasn't sure what to make of his apology. It sounded genuine, but his twin would have to try a hell of a lot harder to earn Dean's trust. "Does that make you the boss around here?"

His twin furrowed his brow. "No, not quite. That would be my dad."

Dad…

Dean pictured his father's gruff, weathered face. Strong, confident, reassuring. Even after six to seven years, his loss weighed heavily in Dean's heart. Most days he could bury the pain, but ever since Henry and Abaddon fell out of his closet, those old wounds were ripped back open. It wasn't fair. Even when John was a child, four-years-old, demons were plaguing their family. When would it stop?

"My dad's dead," he mentioned brusquely, catching his twin off guard. "My cousins are all dead. Jo and Annie? Dead." He peered at the blond guy sitting next to him. "Not sure about you. We've never met, which means you might actually be alive." He looked back at his twin, whose face was pale. "I don't know if I'm cursed or what, but everyone I love gets taken from me, so mark my words. I will be damned before I lose my brother. If you bastards don't return him to me, alive and well, I'll kill you."

For a long, drawn-out moment, no one spoke. His captors were mulling over his threat, having the good sense to take him seriously. He might be outnumbered and restrained, but he was far from helpless, and they knew it.

Eventually, Dean's twin broke the silence. "I'll petition for you when we reach headquarters."

"Headquarters?" Dean asked, thoroughly confused. What kind of reality was this? First, the bunker was staffed with hunters. Then, Gwen mentioned a war with Eve, and a compound designed to contain monsters with state-of-the-art security. Now, he was riding around in a transport helicopter with military-grade weapons. It all felt so… elite.

Thankfully, his twin picked up on his bewilderment. "Yeah. I can't imagine what your reality's like, but around here, hunters are employed by the Prime Hunting Syndicate. My dad's the chief, and he presides from his office in Newport. I'll ask him to release your brother, but I have to warn you, he doesn't respond well to belligerence. Give us something to work with—a show of good faith. Tell us about your friend."

Dean smirked. "Who? Castiel? He's not like anything you've ever seen before, is he?"

His twin grimaced. "We're not sure. What is he? A witch?"

"Nice try, but no," Dean replied. "Not even close." He took a moment to bask in their uncertainty before adding, "Don't worry, he's a friend—but he's my friend, so be careful how you treat me and my brother."

Gwen took that as her cue. "Whatever he is, he seemed very… solemn. And prudent. They claim he has the power to kill everyone around him with the snap of his fingers, but he said he doesn't enjoy 'smiting' humans."

Dean's twin turned to gawk at her. "Smiting?"

She shrugged. "That's the word he used."

They both glanced back at Dean for an explanation, but he shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me."

His twin narrowed his eyes. "Sounds like a freak with a God complex."

The gibe stung, but Dean ignored it. Instead, he asked, "The name Michael mean anything to you?"

His twin blinked. "Michael? Michael who?"

Well, that settled it. These bastards didn't know an angel when they saw one, and they never endured the apocalypse. Plus, his dad was alive. Dean couldn't help but feel a streak of jealousy, and he set his jaw. "Michael, as in the bane of my existence. You want answers, but trust me, if you haven't met Michael or Castiel, then your world's been spared a lot of trouble, and like I said, you would never believe me."

His twin was starting to lose patience. "Look, pal, I don't appreciate mysteries."

"Yeah? Well, I don't appreciate kidnappers, human experiments, tasers, or handcuffs!"

"You kidnapped Gwen!"

"To find my little brother! He's sick, and for all I know, he could be hurt. Or worse. If you can't understand why I'm on the warpath, then I've got nothing to say to you. Screw diplomacy. You will either give Sam back cause it's the right thing to do—and you know it—or I swear to God, there will be hell to pay!"

 **SPN**

After coughing for at least five minutes—perhaps fifteen—Sam was finally able to resume driving. His hands were shaking, which made it difficult to steer the car, but somehow, he managed. He was too stubborn (or desperate) to let a cold—even a supernatural cold—get the best of him. He had to keep moving.

Currently on Route 12, heading southwest towards the Lolo Pass, which would lead him into Idaho, Sam wondered how much longer he could keep this up. Eventually, the car's rightful owner would report it stolen. Campbell, Ethan, and their flunkies would start looking for it, and Montana only had so many roads for them to search. Given their resources, Sam would never be able to outrun them… But maybe he could outmaneuver them.

If he ditched the car, sooner or later, they would find it. Then, they would focus their attention farther west, assuming that his goal was to put as much distance between them as possible. Unfortunately, Sam was too sick and sore to attempt hiking through the surrounding wilderness, but if he doubled back, he might be able to elude them. It was a risky plan, but right now, if he couldn't defy their expectations, how would he ever escape?

When he finally reached the Lolo Pass Visitor Center—a log building near the state border—he was surprised to glimpse several jeeps, pickups, and SUVs parked along the side of the road. What the hell? It was the middle of the night. The place should be deserted.

Crap.

Against his better judgment, Sam pulled over and scanned the area. Lights were on inside the building, while the vehicles appeared dark and empty. He might be able to steal one, but chills were running down his spine, and he couldn't bring himself to move. Dr. Visyak warned him to keep an eye out for roadblocks… This didn't look like a roadblock, but it definitely felt like a trap, and he knew better than to ignore his gut.

Time to go.

Sam pressed down on the accelerator, only to feel the tires blow out. The car jerked, swerving dangerously before shuddering to a stop. Sam caught his breath, heart pounding. A second glance through the windshield revealed at least a dozen figures sauntering into the beams of his headlights. Among them stood a young woman with long espresso hair, a white sleeveless dress, and a cold, satisfied smile.

Eve.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Apparently, Sam can't catch a break. Poor guy…_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	16. Newport

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm sorry, but if you're going to have the "mother of all monsters" building an army of monsters, then you better include some of those monsters, right? This next part's a little icky, but I couldn't help myself. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

Eve. Mother of all monsters. Sam froze, in a panic. This was it. He couldn't flee in a car with blown-out tires, and if he tried to fight, he would lose. More than likely, Eve would kill him. He didn't stand a chance. He was going to die.

Something ripped the driver-side door all the way off the frame. Sam swung his head around and found himself looking up at a broad-shouldered anthropomorphic amphibian with green skin and bulging red eyes. No time to react. The monster's tongue whipped out of its mouth and wrapped around Sam's wrists, snapping them together. It was slick, warm, and repulsive, making Sam nauseous. He recoiled, frantically wriggling his wrists, but the disgusting organ was too powerful. The amphibian leaned into the car, reaching over Sam to unbuckle his seatbelt. Then, it grabbed Sam by the arm, yanked him out of the vehicle, and tossed him to the ground.

The impact left Sam in a daze. Pain flared around his pelvis, and tears filled his eyes. The monstrous tongue began to pull on his wrists, stretching his arms over his head and dragging him across the pavement. With only a loose-fitting white T-shirt and flannel pajama pants for cover, Sam had no protection as the road scraped against his skin.

 _Get up!_

He could almost hear his brother barking at him to get his act together. He was a hunter, damn it! If he was going to die, fine, but he wasn't going to take it lying down.

Gritting his teeth, Sam twisted onto his stomach. He might not be able to free his wrists, but he did manage to latch onto his slimy tether so he could haul himself upright. Somehow, he got his legs under him and pushed to his feet, just in time to face his new captor.

Eve was the only figure in the horde who looked remotely human. The others were all her hybrid children—anthropomorphic amphibians, reptilians, chupacabras, arachnids… and they were all baring their fangs malevolently. It felt surreal—monsters weren't known for teaming up—and these freaks were all straight out of a low-budget horror flick. Gulping, Sam tried to focus on their mother. "If you're going to kill me, just get it over with."

Eve cocked her head, taking in Sam's appearance with a concerned expression. "What makes you think I want to kill you?"

"I'm a hunter," he replied, fidgeting with his bound wrists. "And apparently I'm immune to your infection, so I'm no good to you alive."

She glanced briefly at the amphibian. "Thank you." It promptly released Sam, slurping its tongue back into its mouth. For a fleeting moment, Sam considered running, but why bother? He couldn't escape. Still, when Eve stepped towards him, he nervously shuffled backwards. "Relax," she told him gently. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not like the barbarians who brutalized you in that wretched compound."

He caught his breath. "You know about that?"

"Of course I do," she sympathized. "I'm a mother, Sam. I share an intimate bond with all my children, including Neritheyna."

"Neritheyna?"

"You know her as Dr. Eleanor Visyak. I watched it all, Sam. Through her eyes. I saw everything she saw, and it grieved me to the core. You call us monsters, but the truth is, we're just predators. The only difference between us and your average lions, tigers, and bears is that we prey on humans. You can't fault us for that. We have to survive. But your kind? Those horrible people… I would never treat my children the way they treated you. How can they even justify it? They're the real monsters."

Sam was familiar with the old argument, but for once in his life, he couldn't bring himself to object. He was in too much pain. "If you're not going to kill me, then let me go."

She sighed wistfully. "You know I can't do that. You were right about one thing, Sam. You are impervious to my touch, and that makes you a threat. I intend to adopt every last human into my family, which means I can't have you spreading your immunity. But don't worry. With your help, perhaps I can modify my touch to neutralize your defenses. There might still be hope for you, Sam. You don't have to spend the rest of your life on the run. You don't have to be alone, without a mother's love."

No…

Sam shook his head. "Are you kidding? Stay the hell away from me!"

"Sshhh…" she cooed. "Everything will be all right. You don't have to be afraid." She turned her gaze to address her minions. "Prepare to move out. The Syndicate won't be far behind the boy, and we must shelter him at all costs."

"No…" Sam quickly surveyed his surroundings, desperate for a way out. Unfortunately, Eve's monsters were everywhere, effectively boxing him in. Helpless, he could only watch as four of the amphibians marched forward, firing their tongues to snag each of his wrists, his waist, and his neck. The next thing he knew, they were drawing him effortlessly towards their fleet of vehicles.

 **SPN**

Dr. Visyak waited stiffly for Campbell to finish reviewing the surveillance tape from the laboratory. She would have liked nothing more than to forget all about the angelic visitation, but when the mystery man appeared on camera, she knew she had to report it. Otherwise, her superiors would eventually find out and question her secrecy.

Therefore, she found herself alone with Campbell in the level 6 security room. PHS-14 and Ethan Dobbs were out searching for Sam, while Dr. Robert and Danielle were trying to get some rest—it was well after midnight. Dr. Visyak should have followed their lead… She had taken two sleeping pills earlier in the evening, and was still groggy, but after liberating Sam, her thoughts were running wild, and she was anxious to demonstrate her dedication to the Syndicate. If she had known an angel would show up looking for Sam, she would have gone back to bed. Hell, if she had known an angel would show up, she would have left Sam in his recovery room for the angel to rescue. Damn it. Talk about bad timing.

After a few more minutes, Campbell peered over at her with his cold, penetrating green eyes. "So. You let him take our file? You told him of the boy's escape?"

She forced herself to blush, feigning embarrassment. "Forgive me. I'm not a hunter. I wasn't trained to confront monsters—and this one breached our security. I panicked."

"Clearly," he criticized, barely containing his frustration. "Dr. Visyak, I have reason to believe that _thing_ followed my nephew's squad through the mirror from Sam's reality into ours, and now, thanks to you, he could be one step closer to finding the boy, which I cannot allow."

"No sir," she agreed.

"We need Sam to win the war, for the sake of all mankind."

"Yes sir."

"And if there's one thing I will not tolerate, it's a fool compromising the integrity of the Syndicate—an offense you have now committed, not once, but twice."

Her heart fluttered, then froze. "Twice?"

He faced her fully, calmly extracting a gun from its holster. And not just any gun. The Colt.

The Colt.

Dr. Visyak stared in disbelief.

"Ah me!" Campbell exclaimed. "How hard a thing it is to say what was this forest savage, rough, and stern, which in the very thought renews the fear. So bitter is it, death is little more."

Dr. Visyak's hand covered her mouth.

Campbell nodded. "Believe it or not, I've read Dante's _Inferno_. I was standing right there when Sam mentioned hearing your counterpart lecture on the _Divine Comedy_. You, Dr. Visyak, a professor of medieval studies." He scoffed. "Did you think I wouldn't hear you reciting poetry through my lips? Of course I did! How dare you possess me? How dare you release the boy?"

He aimed the weapon.

Dr. Visyak held her palms out in surrender. "I don't understand… That's the chief's gun!"

"Yes," Campbell acknowledged. "I suppose it is."

And with that, he pulled the trigger.

 **SPN**

It was just past dawn when the helicopter landed on the perfectly manicured, 10-acre lawn of a gorgeous, renaissance revival mansion in Newport, Rhode Island. As Dean's captors ushered him off the aircraft, he could hear the surging waves of the Atlantic—they weren't far from the rugged shoreline where steep, precipitous cliffs overlooked the ocean.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered, gazing up at the monumental palace, no doubt built by some wealthy American who longed for the prestige of Europe's stately homes. What the hell were hunters doing in a place like this? The grand portico featured a dozen columns, and protective warding decorated the stringcourses between each floor. They might not keep out angels, but they would definitely keep out demons. "This can't be your headquarters."

"Why not?" his twin asked in genuine curiosity.

Dean sputtered. "I mean… Just… Look at the place! It's practically the Vanderbilts'."

"The what?" Annie asked while taking in Dean's clothes—and not for the first time. He always felt some pride in his appearance, but it wouldn't surprise anyone to learn he typically shopped in thrift stores and Army Surplus. He was homeless for most of his life, and he didn't belong anywhere near the upper class.

"What's the rent like?"

"There is no rent," his twin replied, much to Dean's astonishment. "This is the Markham House. My grandfather claimed it after the massacre in 1958, and now it belongs to my dad."

Dean nearly lost his balance. "You live here?"

"Well, yeah. Since I was four."

Dean tried to think of a response, but words failed him. Hell, it was hard enough adapting to life in a subdivision with a white picket fence. As much as he loved Lisa and Ben, he felt more at home in Purgatory. Spending his childhood in a mansion? Somehow, the idea just seemed… wrong.

His twin must have read his expression. "Why? Where did you grow up?"

"Me?" Dean shrugged. "Honestly? On the road. In my dad's '67 Impala."

From the corners of his eyes, he glimpsed his captors trading startled looks. Then, perhaps hoping to lighten the mood, his twin said, "At least tell me you made it work for you. You know, some girls really dig bad boys from the wrong side of the tracks."

Dean ignored him, focusing back on the mansion with an upset stomach. What would Sammy say to all of this? He always wanted a normal life, but such insane wealth was still pretty damn far from normal—just on the opposite end of the spectrum. If he had to guess, Sam would hate it here.

They proceeded up the portico steps and made their way into the grand entry hall. 'Grand,' however, didn't quite do it justice. The room was massive, like Zachariah's Green Room on steroids. It had a high, vaulted ceiling with a series of crystal chandeliers. Second and third-floor galleries wrapped around the perimeter with arched colonnades and wrought-iron railings. The walls featured gilded boiseries, and marble statues of bygone heroes stood in every corner.

As Dean balked at the splendor of it all, a butler appeared from a room to the left. A friggin' butler! Dressed in a formal suit with white gloves and a receding gray hairline! "Welcome home, sir," he addressed Dean's twin with a polite nod. "The chief has asked that you, Miss Campbell, and our new guest wait for him in the debriefing room. The rest of your squad may relieve themselves."

"Thank you, Mr. Ames," Dean's twin said, reaching out to clutch Dean's arm.

He shook himself free. "Get off!"

Mark, Johnny, and the third guy all started towards him, but his twin waved them back. "Don't make this difficult," he warned Dean, who stood his ground.

"Don't touch me, and I won't!"

They glared at each other in equal irritation, but finally, Dean's twin capitulated. "Look, whatever. Just come with me, and if you try anything, we've got security measures in place to retaliate."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Awesome."

After dismissing his subordinates, Dean's twin took the lead with Gwen bringing up the rear, a gun in her hand. They made their way up a grand staircase to the third floor, where they moved deeper into the mansion, passing several servants and quite a few guards. Dean sensed them all glancing in his direction, obviously curious, but nevertheless discreet.

Eventually, they entered a large office with a Persian rug, a writing desk, and a sitting area with a coffee table between two Chesterfield sofas. The walls all had elaborate wainscoting, built-in bookshelves, and niches with plants, picture frames, and vases. Aside from the noticeable lack of windows, it felt more like a living room than a debriefing room.

"Make yourself comfortable," Dean's twin suggested as he closed the door behind Gwen. "We could be here awhile."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	17. The Chief of the Syndicate

**SPN**

Fifteen minutes later, Dean was pacing in restless agitation, arms still bound behind his back. His twin was sprawled out on one of the sofas, and Gwen was sitting in a chair by the writing desk, lost in her own little world. Dean wasn't sure how much more of the silence he could take, and he wondered how Castiel was doing. Had the angel heard his prayer? Was he here now, watching, invisible to the human eye? Or had he ignored the prayer, too busy rescuing Sam? Dean hoped for the latter—his brother needed Cas more than he did.

When the door finally opened, his captors both launched themselves to their feet, standing at attention. Dean knew from experience how imposing John Winchester could be. He wasn't just a hunter; he was a former marine who kept himself in excellent shape. At 6'2", he was brawny and powerful—all muscle—and he carried himself with such confidence, few people dared question his authority. At least, that was the father Dean remembered.

But the man who now entered the debriefing room was more than a mere hunter and marine. He was also the head honcho of an elite, paramilitary Syndicate with limitless resources. His face was weathered, but clean-shaven, and his dark, charcoal hair was short and slicked back. He wore a tailored, three-piece suit with a pair of black calf shoes and gold cufflinks—very 007—and he acknowledged his subordinates with a stern expression.

Holy Crap.

Dean knew this encounter was coming, but knowing it and experiencing it were two very different things. Seeing his dad alive, even a cheap copy, felt like a punch to the gut, and for a long moment, Dean could barely breathe, much less speak.

Meanwhile, the old man homed in on his eldest son. "Are you out of your damn mind!? Tell me you didn't go after two unknown subjects without permission!"

Gwen paled at John's displeasure, but Dean's twin managed to maintain his calm. "With all due respect, sir, I got the job done, didn't I?"

John scoffed. "Really?" He gestured at Dean. "Then where's his mystery friend? One out of two is not getting the job done!"

"It is when saving Gwen's my only objective. Sir."

Dean marveled at his twin's nonchalance. John's temper was no joke.

"I should suspend you," he chided, "for an absurd lack of judgment."

"Understood, sir," Dean's twin replied, unfazed. "If that's the cost for my family's safety, then so be it." They stared each other down, one fuming, the other perfectly calm. Fortunately, it seemed that family meant as much to the Winchesters in this reality as it did back home.

John sighed, wiping his hand over his mouth. He glanced briefly at Gwen before focusing on Dean. His eyes were sharp with suspicion, but as they locked gazes, something about Dean's countenance softened John's expression. "You look like you've been to hell and back."

A lump had formed in Dean's throat, making it difficult to answer. "You can't imagine where I've been, sir. The crap I've seen. Sam's had it even worse, so please. I'm asking nicely. Give him back."

Much to his relief, John nodded. "I would." But then—just to keep things interesting—he retracted. "If it were that easy." Dean clenched his fists, but John spoke over his objection. "Hear me out. I'm not condoning your brother's treatment. Far from it." He took a step back and suddenly bore down on Gwen. "I understand you spoke up for the boy?"

"Yes sir," she said, staring straight ahead, not quite able to meet her chief's gaze. "But I was outranked. I wish I could have done more."

"What stopped you?" John demanded. "Why didn't you call me?"

She hesitated, furrowing her brow. "I… Forgive me. My father said he would make the report and ordered us all to maintain strict confidentiality."

"Of course he did…" John spoke in a slow, dangerous voice. "Let me tell you something about your father, Gwen. He's been steadily trying to undermine my authority for months." She flinched at the accusation. "Now, I like you. Aside from Dean, you're the closest friend Sam ever had, and I appreciate that, so don't make me question your allegiance."

Dean's twin glanced from his father to his cousin in confusion. "Wait… You mean Uncle Will…?" (Apparently, 'uncle' was easier to say than 'second cousin, once removed.')

"He never made his report," John grumbled. "I had no idea the boy was taken."

"Then how'd you find out?" Dean asked, cursing his luck. Of course the family would be in the middle of a damn feud. What else was new?

John spared him a brief glance, then turned toward his son. "Your friend Ethan called me a few hours ago. Since then, I've been on the phone with Christian and the rest of his squad, minus Gwen. From what I've gathered, it was Christian's idea to seize the boy, and Will approved. Ethan accompanied him to the compound, hoping to keep an eye on him, but yesterday evening, Will relieved him from duty. A few hours later, Sam disappeared from his recovery room."

Disappeared?

Recovery room?

Dean caught his breath, shoulders tensing, but he held his tongue while John continued.

"The security cameras show Will escorting the boy off the compound's premises. Sam's gone, and we don't know where." He met Dean's gaze. "I'm sorry."

Gwen was shaking her head. "But sir, that doesn't make any sense! Why would my father do that? He wants to kill Eve as much as anyone, and Sam's immunity…"

"Sam's alleged immunity," John interrupted, "will not kill Eve. It might combat her infection, but it will not combat her. Now, according to Ethan, Will doesn't remember taking the boy. He claims something possessed him."

Dean's twin made a face. "From the safety of the compound?"

"I know," John replied. "It sounds ridiculous. Will's doing everything he can to recover the boy, but Ethan's worried it could be an act, which is why he called me. With the compound's security, how could anything possess Will?"

"So you think he's lying?" Dean asked.

His twin scoffed. "What, you think Uncle Will's stupid enough to waltz out with Sam on camera and claim the devil made him do it? That's insane. He's gotta be telling the truth." He narrowed his eyes. "Maybe your friend cast a spell on him."

Dean scowled. "He's not a witch! Besides, if he had rescued Sam, we'd be on our way back home by now."

 _Sammy… where are you?_

"As far as I'm concerned," John stepped in. "Will failed to report Sam's abduction. He's been keeping secrets from me, overstepping his bounds, and frankly, I've had enough. I'm dispatching Internal Affairs to take him into custody for an official inquest."

"But sir," Gwen protested, visibly shaken. "You know my father. You know his temper. If you challenge him like that, he'll retaliate. People will take sides. It could splinter the whole Syndicate."

"The Syndicate will survive!" John snapped. "But I'm through with your father's continued insubordination. It's time he learns his place."

Dean could feel the situation slipping out of control. "Hey, don't you think we're getting a little off topic here? What about Sam? I need to find him."

John's dispute with Gwen left him in a foul mood. "You're not finding anyone," he grimly replied. "You're a stranger in this reality, with my son's face." Dean stiffened. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you out of custody. Ethan and PHS-14 are searching for your brother, and I will personally oversee the investigation. Rest assured, if or when we find the boy, we'll return him to you, and send you back to your reality, but until then, you need to sit tight."

So that's why his wrists were still handcuffed. He was still a prisoner, no matter how sympathetic the old man came across. Dean shook his head. "I don't think so." Then, before his captors could patronize him, he called out, "Cas!? Are you hearing this!?"

A flutter of wings preceded the angel's materialization. Standing directly behind John, he raised three fingers to the old man's head and promptly knocked him out. Gwen gasped while Dean's twin drew his gun, but he wasn't nearly fast enough. Cas vanished, only to reappear next to the hunter. A moment later, father and son were both incapacitated. The angel turned towards Gwen.

"No, wait!" she exclaimed, holding her hands out in a show of surrender. "You don't have to do that! I want to help you!"

Cas hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Dean.

"Leave her," he said. "Get these cuffs off."

Eager to make herself useful, Gwen pointed at Dean's twin. "He should have a key." Cas narrowed his eyes, obviously skeptical, but he proceeded to lean down and riffle through the man's pockets.

"I take it you didn't find Sam," Dean observed as the angel procured the small item.

"I'm sorry… Somehow, he escaped the compound, which is nothing short of a miracle if you ask me, but it means we're back to square one."

Damn.

"We need to regroup," Dean said as the angel unlocked his handcuffs. "But first, Jo took my knife, and Annie Hawkins took our mirror. We need our stuff back."

 **SPN**

The sun had risen, but the woods were dense and foggy, making it difficult to see—not that Sam was in a position to see much of anything. His body couldn't weather the terrain, and after ten minutes of hiking, his legs gave out. Eve was kind enough to accommodate him, asking the amphibians to release him and an ogre to carry him—so now he was slung over a monster's shoulder, grimacing at the smell of its thick, sweaty flesh.

"We're almost there," Eve assured him as they ventured deep into the wilderness, where the Syndicate would never find them. Sam groaned, clenching his eyes shut and squirming uncomfortably.

Their trek took another thirty minutes; then, they entered a large, damp cave. Sam shivered at the sudden drop in temperature as Eve led the horde down a long, steep tunnel. Gradually, he became aware of a soft, distant rustling, and he cringed at the sound. "What is that?"

"Extensions of Keforakas," Eve calmly replied. "He's a special creature. Friendly, but curious—and very obedient. He'll keep you safe while I attend to other matters."

When they reached their destination, the ogre gently placed Sam on his feet. Looking around, he found himself in a secondary chamber lit by four evenly-spaced Tiki torches. Heart racing, he quickly caught sight of the monstrous source of the noise.

Hands…

Literally hundreds, if not thousands, of hands were protruding from the walls, rubbing up against each other with grasping fingers.

"No," Sam whispered as the ogre pushed him forward.

Immediately, a cluster of hands took notice, and they reached out with extending arms. Before he could move, they latched onto his shirt and yanked him forward, retracting back into the wall. Sam yelled, crashing headfirst into a legion of appendages. They eagerly snatched his wrists and ankles, pawing at his arms and legs, stroking his chest, exploring his face…

Sam coughed, struggling to free himself, but they only pulled him closer. "N-no… d-don't…! Eve!"

His stomach churned as several fingers ventured through his lips. He frantically bit down, and they recoiled in pain. Thank God for small favors. But then, as the fingers withdrew, their companions pressed hard against his face, squeezing his head between their palms.

"Turn him around," Eve suggested.

He was promptly rolled over so his back was against the wall. More hands seized his limbs while half a dozen arms stretched out and wrapped around his torso, holding him tightly. Fingers brushed through his hair. A palm clamped over his mouth. He thrashed against the swarm with all the strength he had, but it was futile. He wasn't going anywhere.

"Try to get some rest," Eve told him, smiling in amusement. "I hate to leave you here, but such is war. I have to keep my priorities straight. But don't worry. Keforakas won't let anything happen to you, and when I return this evening, we can spend the whole night searching for solutions to stimulate your susceptibility. Until then…"

Sam watched in horror as she spun on her heel and made her way back out of the chamber. Her minions followed, leaving him alone in the clutches of a faceless, groping monster.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	18. Share

_**Author's Note:**_ _This chapter's on the short side, but I wrote in a creepy little scene for_ _ **sammysmissingshoe**_ _, and it was a good place to stop. Be advised… it's very creepy. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

Once Dean's arms were free, he locked the door to the debriefing room, obstructing any potential intruders. Then, he relieved John and his twin from their weapons, and just to make a point, he cuffed their wrists together. Satisfied, he turned to regard his two conscious companions. Gwen was in the middle of describing where in the mansion Cas could expect to find Jo and Annie. The angel listened with more than his usual stoicism. His face was taut and rigid, warning Gwen not to test him. He was dangerous, and he was pissed. Dean couldn't help but wonder what he discovered inside that compound.

Eager to retrieve the knife and mirror, Cas took Gwen's weapons and disappeared. Her gaze immediately drifted toward Dean. "You have to tell me what he is. Please. I need to know."

Dean motioned for her to sit on one of the sofas, and she obliged. He was grateful this reality had at least one helpful native, but that didn't mean he could trust her. Not completely. Crossing his arms, he considered her with a frown. "When we were back on that boat, how did Prince Charming over there know where to find us?"

Gwen tensed, averting her eyes. "I, um… well… it's Syndicate policy for hunters to implant microchips. We all have one, so we can't go missing. In our line of work, it's very practical."

"Seriously?" Dean asked, jaw dropping. Microchips? How bizarre could this world get? "So, then, the whole concept of privacy means squat to you people, is that it?" He tried not to think about Sam being trapped here for two days, going on three. He had to get him out. Now.

Gwen furrowed her brow, as if privacy never occurred to her. "When you join the Syndicate, you dedicate your life to a profound cause. Don't get me wrong—the compensation's exceptional—but you have to be all in. You have to put the Syndicate first. I mean, it's not like the microchips have cameras. We're not being watched, or anything. But if you're talking about playing hooky and dropping off the radar for awhile… that's called being AWOL, and it's out of the question. Hunters know that, and they agree to it."

Dean shuddered. "So then, why'd you kidnap my brother? Didn't you say something about the Sam from your reality…?"

"He's missing," Gwen acknowledged. "He tampered with his microchip—dug it out." It was her turn to shudder. "That's no small feat. I can't imagine how painful it must have been."

"What's he running from?" Dean asked, intuitively aware that hiding from the Syndicate required extreme caution, determination, and sacrifice. Sam wasn't just seeking a normal life. With their resources, the Syndicate would catch up to him—unless he was constantly a step ahead, always looking over his shoulder, a fugitive on the run. Damn, that must suck.

Gwen sighed, shaking her head. "He left without a word. I wish I knew why, but all I can really do is speculate." She seemed genuinely upset. Earlier, John called her one of Sam's closest friends, second only to Dean. Why wouldn't he confide in her?

Before he could ask, they were interrupted by Castiel, who returned with a flutter of his wings, bearing both the knife and mirror. "We need to leave," he said with some urgency, while offering Dean the prized weapon. "It won't take those people long to realize they've been robbed."

"Good idea," Dean agreed. "And I know just the place to regroup. Somewhere these sons of bitches will never think to look." He glanced apologetically at Gwen. "You're gonna have to stay behind. You're a literal tracking device."

She couldn't mask her disappointment, but she knew better than to argue. "I hope you find your brother, Dean. If there's anything I can do to help, just let me know."

"I'll hold you to that," he assured her. "In the meantime, take care of yourself."

"Dean," Cas insisted. "We have to go."

He focused on the angel. "You remember that old, abandoned barn where you first introduced yourself?"

"Of course."

Dean nodded. "These guys don't know who or what you are, which means they don't know anything about our history. That barn should be safe. We'll go from there."

Cas immediately reached out for Dean's shoulder, and with that, they were gone.

 **SPN**

A heartbeat later, they materialized in a rickety old barn with a gambrel roof. It was exactly how Dean remembered it—at least before Bobby graffitied it with every trap and talisman he knew. Built on a lonely patch of land near Pontiac, Illinois, it featured two workbenches, and nothing else. The double doors were sealed shut, and the lights were all turned off. Considering the lack of windows, it should have been hard to see, but various slits in the wood siding allowed the sun to shine through, exposing clouds of dust particles.

Dean ran his hand over his mouth, unprepared for the memories that assailed him. Suddenly, he was twenty-nine again, fresh out of hell, scared, confused, and broken.

" _What's the matter?"_ The angel's voice echoed through the years. _"You don't think you deserve to be saved?"_

Everything changed that night. Dean's entire worldview turned upside down, which left him questioning his very existence. No, he didn't deserve to be saved. After everything with Alastair… he wasn't worthy of heaven.

Cas seemed to share his regret. "We've come a long way, haven't we?"

Enduring hell, the apocalypse, civil war, Leviathans, Purgatory… Always something. And now this.

Dean sighed, longing for his brother. "Tell me you have a lead."

Cas looked hesitant. For someone with such an experienced poker face, he was disturbingly upset. "Dean, that compound… It's no place for Sam. Or anyone, for that matter."

Great. "So how do we find him?"

"There is a way, but it will require a degree of patience."

"Why?"

"I must attune myself to Sam's subconscious, and wait for him to fall asleep."

 **SPN**

Touch…

Keforakas craved touch.

It was all he lived for. His purpose. His function.

He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't taste. He only understood the concepts Mother psychically taught him, but would never experience the physical perceptions in reality. He was bound to one, and he would make the most of it.

Touch…

He dwelled in a cold, damp cave, but the flames from the Tiki torches gave him warmth. He cherished warmth.

The human was warm. That's how he knew where to reach, where to grab.

The human was soft, too. Most things were rigid. The walls. The floor. But not the human. He was soft and supple—a real treat. Keforakas would have liked nothing more than to dig in, to indulge with unrestrained enthusiasm, but Mother said to be gentle—not with words, but with supernatural cognizance.

" _Don't rush. Humans are delicate. If you rush, you might break him, and if you break him, I'll have to take him away."_

No…

He had so few possessions, and so many hands. Each hand yearned for something to grasp. After all, possessions gave him meaning, but they were so rare, and he had to share them with every part of himself. Every single hand.

Had to share.

Had to touch.

Had to keep.

Always.

Forever.

So be gentle.

How gentle?

He never owned a human before. How delicate was he?

Experiment. Learn.

In preparation for this acquisition, Mother explained human vital signs. She taught him where on the torso to find the human's heart, where on the neck to find his pulse. She taught him how to monitor and maintain their rhythms. Not too fast. Not too slow. Simple. Fascinating.

But it wasn't just the heart and neck. Other areas of the body pulsed as well, and sometimes, the human's throat would vibrate. Keforakas liked the way it tickled. He tried to encourage it, and soon realized the human was more responsive when he squeezed and pulled.

And oh, the hair! It felt so smooth; so nice to pet.

The muscles, too. Careful not to hurt the human, Keforakas pinched the muscles, fondling them in pure delight.

Through it all, the human squirmed, resisting with combative belligerence.

Mother warned him of this. Humans were feisty. They craved freedom. Independence.

How strange.

Keforakas knew nothing of freedom. His hands were fixed to the walls. He knew nothing of independence. His hands were part of a swarm. All he knew, all that mattered, was possession.

Touch.

As long as he didn't break the human, he could keep the human. Mother said so.

She also said the human would eventually surrender, accepting his new life as a possession, but for the moment, he required a firm hand. Easy enough. He might be feisty, but Keforakas was strong.

And he enjoyed the challenge. He enjoyed the movement. All that squirming… it was the closest thing to a dance that Keforakas could ever imagine, and he savored it.

Only one thing bothered him…

The human's teeth. They were sharp and painful. They should be removed.

But no. Mother said not to break him, or she would take him away. Keforakas didn't want to lose him, and so, he kept the human's mouth constantly covered. No biting when the mouth was covered. Soon, the human would fall asleep, and then Keforakas could safely explore the warm, wet cavity. He had all the time in the world.

Touch…

Stroke…

Twist…

Pull…

Hug…

Squeeze…

Share…

Share…

Share…

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	19. Dear Friends

_**Author's Note:**_ _This chapter was so much fun to write! I've been waiting forever to bring in these characters, and now they're here! Please enjoy, and let me know what you think._

 **SPN**

Sam was breathing heavily as he surveyed his surroundings. He was standing knee-deep in a sea of water that stretched out endlessly in all directions, reaching the horizon. Overhead, the sky was pink, but there was no sun to help him orient himself. Which way was east? Or west? Was it morning or evening? Sam swallowed nervously, lost and alone.

Gradually, he noticed the water level rising; it climbed halfway up his thighs. Not good. If he didn't find some dry ground in the next few minutes, he could be in serious trouble. But where? There was nothing in sight, nowhere to go… He tried wading forward, but his feet were pinned to the mucky floor beneath the surface. He couldn't move.

Crap.

The water steadily climbed to his waist. Sam shivered, a breath away from panicking. He knew how to swim, and could always tread, or even float, but not if his feet were held down. He was stuck. He couldn't save himself. The water rose up to his stomach.

But then it stopped.

Panting, Sam glanced around in surprise, brushing the hair out of his face. What happened? What was going on?

"Sam."

He jumped at the unexpected, but familiar voice. Castiel? The angel appeared in front of him, hovering in the air above the water. Sam sighed as sudden comprehension filled him with relief. "I'm dreaming."

Cas observed his predicament with a troubled frown. "Is this a dream? Or a nightmare?"

Sam shrugged. "Could be worse."

The angel gazed down at him with anguish in his bright blue eyes. "Sam, listen to me. I'm here now, in this reality, with your brother. We're coming for you, but we need to find you. Do you know where you are?"

Sam hesitated, struggling to organize his thoughts, but when he focused, he became aware of vague, distant hands—countless hands—harassing him with their greedy, insatiable fingers. Oh, hell no! Sam shook his head, desperate to block them out. "Cas, you have to help me!"

"Where are you?"

"I dunno… A cave? Somewhere in the mountains? Montana? Idaho? I'm not sure."

"That's okay," Cas assured him calmly. "You just have to wake up…"

"No!"

"And pray for me…" The angel furrowed his brow, alarmed by the fear in Sam's voice. "I'll hear your supplication, and this time, nothing will stop me from saving you."

"Are you sure about that?" a woman asked.

Sam's heart skipped a beat, then fluttered, as Eve appeared in the sky above Cas, gazing down at him with a patronizing smile. Caught off guard, the angel flinched, and the moment he acknowledged her, he lost control over the water. It slowly resumed its climb, creeping up Sam's torso.

"Eve…"

"I've been expecting you," she said. "I caught a glimpse of the boy's file through my daughter's eyes. I saw the X-rays, the Enochian sigils carved on his ribs, and I recognized the implications. I know what you are, sweet angel, and I'm ready for you. The traps are set. If you enter that cave, you won't be able to leave, much less save the boy. I guarantee it."

Sam whimpered. The water was almost to his shoulders. "Cas?"

"Why?" the angel asked. "I mean nothing to you. Sam means nothing to you. We're not even from this reality."

"But you are welcome here," she replied with sinister sincerity. "I know your father. I know he abandoned you, and I can feel your loneliness. Your heart is aching, and rightly so. But it's okay! I'm here now, and I will adopt every lonely child I can find. Including you."

Cas scowled. "You can't even care for your own children. I've been to that compound. I've seen what they're suffering."

Eve grimaced. "Unfortunately, those humans have rigged that dungeon to self-destruct if I breach their security. I'm not prepared to sacrifice my children, so I'm forced to bide my time. But it won't be much longer. I will rescue them, I promise."

The water was rising up Sam's neck. Terrified, he thrashed his arms and bucked his legs, but his feet were sinking into the muck. "CAS!"

The angel glanced down, eyes widening. He immediately reached for his friend, but Eve held out her palm and telekinetically yanked him back. "Don't worry about Sam," she said. "He's being well treated."

"No!"

The water was splashing his chin.

Sam leaned his head back, keeping his mouth above the surface.

The water filled his ears.

"CAS!"

He couldn't hear the angel's response, but he could see him struggling against Eve's hold.

Water splashed over his face, spilling into his mouth and nose.

He sputtered, coughing…

" _I've been waiting a long time to drown you…"_

Fully submerged, he closed his eyes and succumbed to sweet oblivion.

 **SPN**

Sam jerked awake, immediately aware of the foreign bodies in his mouth. Fingers… Multiple fingers rubbing his teeth, his tongue, the insides of his cheeks. Some were venturing deep into his throat, making him gag. Reflexively, he tried biting down, but this time, the monster was ready. Hands pulled back on his hair and forehead while other hands pried open his jaw, preventing his teeth from clamping shut.

Ugh… How could he let himself fall asleep? Of course the damn things would take advantage of his vulnerability! They longer they possessed him, the more inquisitive they became, and soon they might… No. Sam couldn't even go there.

"C-cas!" With his mouth stuffed full of shifting appendages, he could barely get the word out. Would the angel hear him? Would he be able to find him?

Of course he would. Dean and Cas somehow managed to follow him this far. They would follow him the rest of the way. They would find him. Dean always found him. How could he ever question that?

Despite the horror of his situation, just knowing that his brother was here in this reality, that he was coming for him, restored Sam's hope. He wasn't alone. Tears spilled down his face, which naturally caught the monster's attention. Sam clenched his eyes shut as curious fingers advanced, eager to investigate.

"C-CAS!"

No, wait! What about…? Eve? She was there, in Sam's dream. Didn't she mention something about setting traps in place? If the angel came to mount a rescue, Eve would neutralize his power, just like she had back in their reality. Cas would be helpless, and they couldn't afford that. Sam couldn't let himself be used as bait.

Moaning, he trembled in fresh agitation.

 _Don't come for me, Cas. Please, don't risk it. I'm begging you. Stay away._

 **SPN**

Dean paced anxiously, casting another glance at the transfixed angel who sat kneeling in the middle of the floor. How much longer was this going to take? He was so sick of waiting around. His brother needed help!

Suddenly, Cas recoiled, snapping out of his trance while gasping for breath. Dean rushed to his side, bolstering him just in time to keep him from falling over. The hell? Was this normal? "Whoa, whoa! Cas? What happened? Are you okay?"

The angel met his gaze with a look of alarm. "Eve…" He tried to get up, but Dean quickly objected.

"Hey, take it easy!"

Cas nearly buckled, and his eyes glazed over, but only for a moment. Then, he focused back on Dean. "I can hear him. He's alive, but he's under extreme duress."

Dean's blood ran cold. "So let's go get him."

Cas shook his head. "No, we can't. Eve is aware of my presence. If I go anywhere near Sam, I'll be trapped, and you are not equipped to fight her on your own."

"Then what do we do!?" Dean shouted, perhaps louder than necessary.

The angel sighed. "We need help. There must be someone in this reality with both the resources and inclination to support our cause."

Dean blinked, considering their options. "You know what… I think I have an idea."

 **SPN**

On days like this, Bobby Singer couldn't help but question the course of his life. He was getting to be an old man; he didn't have much to show for himself; and according to the people of Sioux Falls, South Dakota, he was little more than a drunk with a half-baked salvage yard. Not that he cared. What did they know? Besides, given the hazards of his secret vocation, it was better not to attract too much attention. If the Syndicate found out… well… he'd be in trouble, to say the least. Possibly even mortal danger. Hunting without an official license was bad enough, but harboring Sam Winchester? That was an offense the chief might not forgive, especially now.

They had been hunting a poltergeist for a twenty-something year old girl who was squatting in a condemned house near Lincoln, Nebraska. Not exactly safe, but she had nowhere else to go. She barely escaped when Eve's minions sacked her town. Her family, all her friends, were dead, and she didn't have the money to purchase Syndicate protection. So, Bobby and Sam offered their expertise, free of charge. They might not be able to save everyone in the girl's situation, but they could save as many as possible. That was their mission.

Naturally, the poltergeist wasn't too keen on their interference. Sam bore the brunt of its aggression while Bobby focused on purifying the house. Poor kid was literally shoved through a wall! If he wasn't terrified of hospitals, Bobby would force him to get some X-rays, but all things considered, he was much better off recovering at home.

Subsequently, with cuts on his face, bruises all over his body, and a brace on his knee, Sam was sprawled out on the hide-a-bed, attempting to sleep. Bobby watched him from the living room threshold, mixed emotions at war within him. How the hell did it come to this? After Karen's death, he'd been consumed by grief and bitterness—mostly toward the Syndicate that refused to save her, simply because he couldn't afford their rates. He couldn't even afford their payment plans. Heartless bastards. If someone told him, way back then, that he would end up not only working with a Winchester, but also deeply caring for a Winchester, he would have punched the offender just on principle.

But it was true. Fate, it seemed, conspired to bring them together, and now Bobby, who gave up on family long ago, suddenly found himself with a kid who meant everything to him. Why did it have to be Sam Winchester? Of all the people in the world? Sam was the chief's son, a fact they must never forget. He couldn't run forever. One of these days, the Syndicate would catch up to him, and then there'd be hell to pay. Sam would be dragged back to that mansion in Newport, and Bobby… well… God only knew what the chief would do to Bobby. If he had the slightest degree of self-preservation, he would send the boy away and have nothing more to do with him. Before it was too late.

Yeah. Like that would ever happen.

Lost in his musings, he barely registered the knocking on his front door. Only when it became a persistent pounding did he snap back to reality and grab the rifle in his cramped foyer.

Ever vigilant, he prepped the weapon while squinting through the peephole. "Who's calling?"

Two stern, lean men stood on his porch. One, a stranger in a khaki trench coat. The other…

Balls!

"Bobby!" exclaimed the heir of the Syndicate. "It's Dean Winchester! Look, you're not in trouble, okay? We come in peace. But we know Sam's in there, and we just wanna talk."

Talk?

Bobby frowned, cautiously opening the door. It was too late to run, too late to fight. If Dean knew, the chief certainly knew, and if the chief knew, then he would have the whole property swarming with elite hunters, all waiting for the command to strike. If Bobby provoked them, he would only make things worse—both for himself, and for Sam.

"Bobby…" Dean whispered, staring at him with a dazed expression. "I can't believe it's you."

Then, before Bobby could process the strange remark, the young hunter rushed forward… not to attack, but to wrap his arms around the old man in a crushing, desperate hug.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	20. Introductions

**SPN**

Dean had no idea what compelled him to embrace Bobby. They were technically strangers, and when he considered the poor condition of the Singer Salvage Yard compared to the chief's mansion back in Newport, he got the distinct impression that Bobby wasn't affiliated with the Syndicate. More than likely, he wasn't friends with the Dean from this reality, which made such a warm greeting both unusual and uncomfortable.

Aware of Bobby's tension, Dean pulled back with a sheepish smile. "Sorry… I realize that was awkward, but I can explain."

"Save it!" Bobby set down his rifle, stepped onto the porch, and closed the door behind him. After scanning his overgrown property, no doubt searching for concealed bad guys, he fixed a withering glare on Dean. "The kid's trying to sleep. He went after a poltergeist last night, and took quite a beating. He's fine, but he doesn't need anymore abuse."

Dean's stomach dropped. "Abuse?"

Bobby spoke over him. "I realize it ain't none of my business, but he doesn't want to see you. He doesn't want to be anywhere near you. If you walk in there and ambush him, I promise, you won't like the look on his face."

"Wait, just—!" Dean faltered, caught off guard by his friend's obvious resent. "Just hold on!" Abuse? The word didn't necessarily mean _abuse_ , right? He glanced nervously at Castiel, who promptly dropped his gaze. The angel had been acting odd… distracted… upset… ever since returning from that compound. He called it "no place for Sam," but didn't elaborate, and suddenly, Dean wondered if he was hiding something. He glanced back at Bobby. "It's not what you think. I'm Dean Winchester, but not from this reality. We're from a different, parallel reality. I'm not here with the Syndicate. I don't have anything to do with the Syndicate. I'm here because they kidnapped my little brother, and we need help."

Needless to say, Bobby stared at him in disbelief. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"Here." Castiel retrieved the mirror from a large pocket on the inside flap of his coat. He offered it to Bobby. "This is the vehicle we used to travel here. We wouldn't make something like that up. What would be the point?"

Bobby hesitated, but then scrutinized the mirror with an uncertain frown. Hopefully, he would prove as smart, competent, and open-minded as the Bobby that Dean remembered. After a beat, he shoved the mirror back at Cas while narrowing his eyes at Dean. "All right, I'm only gonna say this once. You better not be screwing with me, for Sam's sake. He's scared of something—I'm not sure what—but I mean it. He's _scared_. And he doesn't need anyone, much less you, manipulating him."

Dean didn't like the sound of that. "I swear. We're not trying to screw with you. I just want to get my brother back, and get the hell out of this reality. That's it. You have my word."

Bobby sighed, casting another skeptical look around his property. "How'd you find us, anyway?"

"Long story." Dean gestured at Castiel. "Basically, he's very good at tracking people down. From what I can tell, his kind don't have much of a presence in this reality, so hunters here don't have the knowledge or experience to hide from him. And considering how well he knows our Sam, it didn't take him long to sense your Sam."

Bobby made a face. "His kind?" He glanced doubtfully at Cas. "What are you?"

Despite keeping his identity a secret from the Syndicate, they didn't need the same leverage over Bobby. They would rather earn his trust. Therefore, Cas simply replied, "I'm an angel of the Lord."

Bobby blanched, taking a step backwards. "There's no such thing."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, count your blessings. If you don't have angels in this reality, you don't have fallen angels, and believe me, Lucifer's a dick." He motioned towards the house. "You mind?"

Bobby blinked, then took a deep breath. "Yeah, all right… Just… try to keep your voice down." With that, he opened the door and led them both inside. They ventured into the living room where Dean immediately caught sight of his brother sleeping on a hide-a-bed. Dressed in faded jeans with a plaid shirt, and the same haircut, he looked so much like Sam that Dean's heart stopped. He was Sam. Down to the very last detail.

Except, he was pretty banged up. Bobby mentioned something about a poltergeist? The poor kid looked like he'd been hit by a car. Dean instinctively stepped towards him, but Bobby grabbed his arm.

"Not so fast," he whispered sternly. "I need you to pass some tests first." He pointed at his cluttered desk, and Dean nodded.

"Fair enough."

They crossed the room as quietly as they could, taking pains not to wake Sam. Bobby opened a drawer and tossed Dean a silver flask. Holy water. He didn't hesitate to drink, and neither did Castiel. Then, just for good measure, Bobby procured a silver knife and carefully nicked their hands. No complaining. No adverse effects.

"Satisfied?" Dean asked. They weren't demons, and they weren't shapeshifters.

Bobby grunted. "Doesn't mean you're not lying. Parallel realities? Angels? Sounds crazy."

"But not impossible," Cas maintained. "From what I understand, the boy's immune to Eve's infection." Bobby bristled, but didn't deny it. "That makes him very valuable to the Syndicate. If they can't find him to study, do you honestly think they're above kidnapping a duplicate? They have the means and motive, I assure you."

Bobby glanced from one to the other, chewing on their words.

Meanwhile, Sam began to stir. He wasn't a deep sleeper, and it didn't take much to disturb him. "Bobby…?" Before anyone could move, he opened his eyes and glimpsed his brother. His reaction was immediate. He sat up straight with a horrified expression, and jumped off the mattress. However, as soon as he put weight on his injured leg, his knee buckled, and he collapsed to the floor.

Dean started. "Sammy?"

"Stay the hell away from me!"

There was no mistaking the panic in the poor kid's voice. 'Scared' was an understatement. The last time Dean saw him like this, he was hallucinating Lucifer. Son of a bitch! Fearing the Syndicate was one thing… but fearing Dean…?

"Sam, it's okay!" Bobby rushed to his friend's side, kneeling next to him and gripping his shoulders. "You're safe! They've given me their word. They're not here with the Syndicate. They're not here to hurt you."

Sam shook his head, trembling. Dean glanced helplessly at Cas. His brother was trembling!

Without a word, the angel made his way over to Sam and Bobby. They watched warily as he crouched down next to them. "Don't be afraid," he said gently, reaching out his hand to press his fingers against Sam's forehead. The cuts and bruises disappeared, and color returned to Sam's cheeks. He inhaled sharply, furrowing his brow in confusion.

"Bobby?"

"Says he's an angel," the old man whispered, visibly shaken. It wasn't everyday they witnessed a supernatural healing.

"My name is Castiel. I'm a friend, and I want to help you, but right now, you're not the one in danger."

Sam didn't seem to believe him. He shrank back, wearing such a broken expression, he looked half his age. "What are you talking about?"

Cas sighed. "There's something you should see." His hand disappeared into the large pocket on the inside flap of his coat, but this time, instead of the mirror, he retrieved an accordion file folder, which he gave to Sam. Then, he glanced at Bobby. "He'll need some room to breathe." Not waiting for the old man's compliance, he grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. They shuffled away from Sam, who remained huddled on the floor.

Dean glanced from the folder over to the angel. "Cas, what is that?"

His friend refused to meet his gaze. Not a good sign.

Slowly, hesitantly, Sam stared down at the folder. He read the label, gulping. Then, he opened it and pulled out a stack of papers. After a brief look at the contents, his face took on a sickly hue. Grimacing, he shoved the stack back into the folder. "That's not me."

"No," Cas assured him. "It's not. It's an alternate version of you from an alternate reality. He was kidnapped and brought here by the Syndicate. Do you understand what that means?"

Sam nodded, on the verge of vomiting. "Y-yes…"

"Good," Cas said, not unkindly. "Dean and I are from his reality, not yours. We're only here to save him. Trust us. We have no interest in returning you to your family. Far from it. But we do need your help."

Sam bowed his head, hair falling over his face.

Dean found himself gazing down at the mystery folder. Cas must have picked it up at the compound. Why didn't he say anything? What the hell? He inched his way forward, not wanting to scare the kid, but anxious to snatch the folder from his hands. Anything involving Sammy, he had a right to see.

Cas noticed and stretched out an arm, blocking Dean's path. "Don't."

Dean glared at him. "Haven't you learned anything about keeping secrets, Cas?" The angel flinched, and Dean plowed past him. When Sam saw him coming, he dropped the folder and scrambled out of his way. It pained Dean to frighten the kid—he didn't mean to, and Bobby's word choice, "abuse," echoed in his mind—but right now, all he cared about was the folder and what it might reveal. He plucked it from the floor and pulled out the stack of papers. Photos. Photos of his baby brother. Photos that made him see red.

"Dean," Cas said softly. "We're going to get him back."

Dean dropped the folder, photos scattering across the floor. He turned, struggling to breathe. The next thing he knew, he was standing by the wall, slamming his fist clean through the surface. The pain was almost a relief. "I should never have left him alone! He was sick, and I just left him there! This is my fault!"

"You couldn't have known," Cas objected. "He was in the bunker. He should have been safe."

"He was vulnerable! He couldn't protect himself, and I should have been there!"

"But you weren't there, Dean!" the angel impatiently exclaimed. "And I'm sorry, but you can't change that. You need to focus, and have faith in your brother. He's strong, and he knows we're coming for him. He's been through worse."

Dean scoffed angrily. "Oh, yeah, he's been through worse. Some comfort!"

Cas shook his head. "That's enough, Dean. Don't let this distract you. Right now, we need to strategize. You're no good to Sam if you're too busy having temper tantrums."

He had a point.

Dean groaned, staring down at his bloody knuckles. He peered over at Bobby and Sam, who were both watching apprehensively. He had to calm down. If he couldn't earn their trust, if he couldn't convince them to help, this might all be for nothing. "I'm sorry… I just… I need to save my brother."

"How?" Sam asked, averting his eyes. "That's a compound file. If they have him at the compound, we can't just break him out. The security…"

"He's not at the compound," Cas interrupted. "It seems your distant cousin, Will Campbell, was temporarily possessed by some kind of monster. He conveyed Sam off the compound, and delivered him to Eve."

"You're kidding."

"As an angel," Cas continued, "I have certain abilities. I can heal. I can fly. I can smite my enemies. But against Eve, the mother of all monsters, I'm powerless. She's simply too strong. And now, she's capable of sending her minions into the compound and stealing prisoners without triggering the self-destruct. How long do you think she'll wait to conquer the place? And when she does, the Syndicate will lose the only real leverage it has. Eve will triumph. The Syndicate will fall, and humanity will be destroyed. Dean and I need reinforcements to rescue Sam, and you need us to kill Eve in the process, or she'll spread her infection to the ends of the earth. We have to help each other. We're running out of time.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	21. Promises

**SPN**

They gathered around the kitchen table, where Bobby dished out some leftovers from breakfast—eggs, bacon, and a fruit salad. It wasn't the most appetizing meal… with Sam in danger, Dean didn't have a stomach for food, but at least they had fresh coffee. He grabbed a mug and eagerly drank it hot.

Then, they sat in awkward silence, waiting for the Syndicate's young runaway (who looked so much like Dean's brother) to brace himself for a difficult conversation. After all, if they were going up against Eve, for the sake of the whole world, they had to trust each other. They had to be honest with each other. No secrets.

Unfortunately, Sam didn't seem to grasp the importance of the 'no secrets' rule. "I… I don't even know where to begin."

"Why'd you leave home?" Dean asked in genuine concern. They might not technically be brothers, but it still bothered him to see traces of lingering fear in Sam's expression. Frankly, if someone threatened the kid, Dean would probably act on instinct. They might be in a different reality, but the only difference he could discern between his Sam and their Sam was the way their Sam looked at him. With fear in his eyes. Oh, hell no. That was not something Dean could tolerate.

Fidgeting nervously, the kid stared down at his plate. "I wasn't welcome anymore…" He trailed off, like there was nothing else to say. Dean clenched his jaw. He knew his brother. The kid was definitely hiding something.

"You weren't welcome?" He tried to keep his voice soft. Maybe he could coax out the truth. "So you just walked out? No goodbyes? Not even to Gwen?"

Sam shook his head, obviously miserable. "I couldn't risk it. She's one of my best friends. She's probably the first person my dad questioned after I left, and if he thought even for a second that she might be covering for me, it could ruin her career. The less she knew, the safer she'd be."

"Safer?" Dean leaned forward, heart pounding. "Sam, did someone hurt you?" The kid flinched, refusing to look up from his plate. When he didn't answer, Dean peered over at Bobby. The old man offered him a barely-perceptible shrug. No wonder he suspected abuse. Dean tried again. "Sam, who was it?"

 _Was it me?_

On rare occasions, Dean was known to take a swing at his brother, but the thought of reducing him to a scared, skittish victim was more than he could bear. The guilt was overwhelming. How could anyone hurt his brother? "Sammy, please… Talk to me."

The poor kid shook his head. "It's not something you can fix, Dean. And it's not your problem." Dean felt the assertion like a slap to the face. Before he could think of a response, Sam continued. "The point is, the day I left, I stole my dad's gun. The Colt. I figured I could use the extra protection, especially with Eve on the loose."

Dean grimaced. How was it possible that Sam felt safer on the road than with his own family? Especially with Eve involved?

"I told myself I could still make a difference. My life could still have purpose and meaning. So I began hunting for people, free of charge, no questions asked." He shuddered. "Do you realize how much trouble I'm in? I'm technically AWOL. I've stolen the chief's personal property, and I'm helping people who can't pay. If my dad finds me, I'm pretty much grounded for life. Literally."

Knowing John, Sam wasn't exaggerating.

"So one day, a couple months ago, I'm on a case out east. A shapeshifter was on a murder spree, killing homeless women. Not something that would ever catch the attention of the Syndicate—they're only concerned with paying customers."

Dean noticed Bobby scowling.

"But this time," Sam went on, "I didn't realize the city mayor had such a heart for public service. He used his own money to hire a Syndicate squad. PHS-03. Ellen Harvelle, Rufus Turner… their team. It didn't take long for us to bump into each other, and then… well, you can imagine how everyone reacted. I ran. As fast as I could. Ellen pursued. Rufus took a different route, trying to cut me off. I was just so desperate to escape, I didn't watch where I was going. I got reckless. The next thing I know, I'm barreling straight into a horde of monsters, and if that's not bad enough, Eve herself was there."

Sam took a deep, shaky breath. "Ellen and half her squad was captured along with me. Our weapons were confiscated and thrown into a nearby ditch. Then, naturally, Eve recognized me. Just my luck. She knew I was the chief's son, and she decided to infect me. To use me against my dad. But…" Sam shrugged. "It didn't work. Turns out I'm inexplicably immune. And you know what's even more frightening? Eve wasn't upset. Surprised, but not upset. She said that makes me her responsibility, and she wants to take me under her wing."

Dean groaned. "Awesome."

"Thankfully, Rufus and the rest of their squad managed to sneak up on us. They secured our weapons from the ditch, including the Colt, which Rufus used to shoot Eve through the heart. It didn't kill her, but it packed a mean punch, and she went down for a good minute. Her minions panicked, and we fought our way out. In all the confusion, I managed to escape. I ran, and I didn't look back."

"Can't blame you for that," Dean muttered.

Sam sighed, brushing his hair out of his face. "So now, I'm screwed. My dad wants me. The compound wants me. And Eve wants me. I don't know what to do anymore." He peered over at Castiel. "If you're really an angel, you're an answered prayer."

Cas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Full disclosure… Angels aren't exactly what they're cracked up to be, myself least of all."

"Shut up, Cas." Considering the endless crap they had to deal with, Dean couldn't add Sam's disappointment to the list. He somehow caught the kid's gaze. "Look, no one's perfect, but I promise you, if you help us, we'll return the favor."

Bobby grunted. "And how do we know you're not just telling us what we want to hear? Maybe, to save your brother, you'd say anything to make us play along."

"Fair point," Dean acknowledged. "But think about it. My brother's trapped with Eve, and I'm anxious to save him. I don't like wasting time, and when I have an angel on my team, manipulation's a waste of time. I could just have Cas knock you out and take Sam by force, but I'm not doing that. I'm sitting here, asking nicely. Please. Help us."

Bobby and Sam exchanged reluctant looks. If they agreed, there was no going back. True, they could always leave Bobby behind and keep Sam's safe house a secret, but Dean recognized the old man's expression. _"Family don't end with blood, boy!"_ If Sam agreed to risk his life, his freedom, to combat Eve, then Bobby wasn't gonna let him go alone.

Sam sighed… "Okay, so what's the plan?"

Dean let out a deep breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Well, we need a weapon with the juice to kill Eve."

"Phoenix ash," Bobby said. "But no one's been able to find any."

 _Yeah, no kidding._

"I've been thinking about that," Cas interjected. "We know the ashes of a phoenix can burn the mother thanks to a book we found in the Campbells' library." (Actually, Bobby found the book, and Cas wasn't there at the time, but Dean didn't bother to correct him.) "We're operating under the intelligence of men. We should be operating under the intelligence of God."

Dean rolled his eyes. "What are you on about, Cas?"

"The Word of God," he replied. "The weapons of God. Eve might be called the mother of all monsters, but she wasn't the first, or even the most formidable. 'Long before God created angel and man, he made the first beasts.'"

Dean shuddered, hearing Death's voice in his mind. "You're saying Dick Roman trumps Eve?"

"No, not Dick Roman. The Leviathan who stole Dick Roman's identity." Cas glared at Dean for the rookie mistake. "I carried those creatures inside me. I know how they felt about Eve, and it was certainly not filial affection. More like contempt. She proceeded from them, but was not one of them. They deemed her a perversion, a pathetic mutt."

Dean blinked. "So they're related?"

"Yes. I believe the bone of a righteous mortal washed in the three bloods of the fallen will be sufficient to kill Eve. Now, the compound has several alphas in custody. With the Syndicate's help, we can acquire most of the ingredients with relative ease."

Dean felt the others staring at him in bewilderment. Leviathans? Weapons of God? They were so confused, and Dean was piqued. "You want to use the weapon that slammed us into Purgatory?" He was so focused on Cas, he barely noticed Sam and Bobby's mounting alarm.

"It's our best option," the angel maintained. "And now that we know about the blast wave, we can prepare for it."

"That's a terrible plan!"

Cas smiled grimly. "Aren't they all?"

 **SPN**

Dean Winchester, heir of the Syndicate, was not in a good mood. The chief's private jet was on its way to Montana, where they would investigate both a kidnapping and a potential conspiracy. Could Uncle Will actually be undermining the chief's authority, like his dad believed? But why? Dean knew his uncle. The man was practically his second father, perhaps a little stern, but never disdainful. He wouldn't betray the chief, especially now, in the middle of a war, would he? How could they fight Eve if they were busy fighting each other?

To make matters worse, his counterpart and the unknown subject were both still at large, undoubtedly stirring up trouble. Dean couldn't necessarily blame them. If he was in their position, he would do the same, but seriously, did they have to knock him out and handcuff him to his father? That was uncomfortable.

Cas… Castiel… At least they had a name, but what the hell was he? If not a witch, then what? A demon? No. Dean couldn't imagine his counterpart working with a demon, much less calling him a friend, so what exactly did that leave? Dean was drawing a blank, and he didn't like it.

Frustrated, he climbed from his lounge chair and stalked from the cabin into the private master suite, where no one else but the chief and his personal staff dared to go. As he went, he felt his father, Gwen, and the other hunters in their company staring after him, but he offered no explanation for his retreat. He owed them nothing, and couldn't stand the tense silence any longer.

Sliding the door shut behind him, he surveyed the extravagant bedroom—only his father could afford such luxury on a friggin' jet. Finding himself alone, Dean fished his cell out from his pocket and called the only person he could really talk to in situations like these.

Thankfully, Ethan was available to answer. "Dean? This really isn't a good time."

"What the hell, man!? Did you idiots actually kidnap an alternate version of my brother from some other reality!?"

"Hey, it wasn't my idea! I was just following orders, but I had a plan to help him. I convinced your uncle to grant me custody of the kid after they finished their research, so I could get him out. I swear, I tried. I had no idea Campbell would take off with him. That came out of nowhere."

"Yeah, well, he was followed. So now, we've got another Dean Winchester running around, along with a powerful unsub, and they are pissed."

"Yeah, I heard," Ethan said with a hint of concern. "How's Gwen?"

Dean sighed. Oh, Gwen… "How do you think? The chief's about to arrest her dad, and this whole disaster's opening up old wounds. She misses Sam…" He trailed off, heart heavy with thoughts of his wayward brother. "I don't get it, Ethan. He's not safe out there. Why won't he come home?"

"I wish I knew, but that's something only he can answer. You know he loves you, right? Nothing's ever going to change that."

"If anything happens to him…"

"Nothing's gonna happen to him. You've gotta hold onto that until we find him. And believe me, we're gonna find him. I promise."

 **SPN**

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	22. Negotiations

**SPN**

The derelict barn near Pontiac, Illinois was still empty when Dean and Cas returned with Sam and Bobby in tow. As far as they knew, Bobby wasn't on the Syndicate's radar, but if he was determined to help, that would change very soon. Once the Syndicate realized he was sheltering Sam, they would hunt him down, and the longer it took them to find his address, the better. No sense drawing their attention to South Dakota.

"You ready?" Dean asked Sam, who was catching his breath—the first time teleporting was always the hardest.

"As I'll ever be," he replied in a shaky voice. Dean marveled at his cooperation. The kid was terrified, and if the situation wasn't so critical, Dean wouldn't ask him to confront his family—at least not until he understood the nature of his fear. If it really was abuse, Dean might be dangling Sam in front of the perpetrator, and that was inexcusable. But what choice did they have? Dean had to find his brother as quickly as possible, and if he was trapped somewhere an angel couldn't reach, they had to find help. This was the easiest way.

"Take your time," Bobby said, handing Sam a burner phone.

"Thanks."

"No one's going to hurt you," Cas assured him. "I won't allow it."

He nodded, face pale. Taking a deep breath, he dialed a number from memory and put the device on speaker.

 **SPN**

After landing the jet in the city of Missoula, the chief's entourage proceeded to occupy an armored limousine for the remainder of the journey. Dean was pleased to find Ethan waiting along with the chauffeur. Apparently, the search wasn't going well for that other Sam. PHS-14 remained on the job, but at this point, Ethan's participation wouldn't make much of a difference. He was far more useful at Dean's side, where he belonged, and Dean was never happier to see him.

Finally able to relax, Dean settled into his seat and pondered his uncle's behavior. It had to be a misunderstanding, right? Well, they would find out soon enough.

Ten minutes later, his cell began to vibrate. He didn't give his number out to many people, which meant the call was important. He fished his phone from his pocket and glanced at the display screen. 'Caller Unknown.'

Caller Unknown?

Sam…

Dean stiffened, eyes darting first to his father—who was busy on his tablet—then to Gwen—who was staring out the window with a vacant expression—then to Ethan—who glanced back at him in curiosity. In the past, he always took Sam's calls in private. It was easier to talk without distractions. But now, he was stuck in a limo, and he knew better than to ask the chauffeur to pull over in the chief's presence. His father was not a patient man.

Well, screw it. Dean couldn't just ignore his brother's call. Pressing 'Accept,' he held the phone to his ear. "Sammy?"

The whole atmosphere changed in a heartbeat. The chief's head snapped up, Gwen glanced around, Ethan smiled, and the other hunters leaned in, shock mixed with excitement.

"Dean…" Sam's voice was even more timid than normal, which gave Dean a bad feeling. "Where are you?"

He frowned. His brother never asked for his location. "Montana. Where are you?"

"I…" Sam hesitated. "I don't know. I'm in trouble, Dean."

Crap.

Dean froze, struggling to process the alarming confession, when suddenly, a new voice took over. His voice.

"Well, how about that. I found your missing brother. You must really suck at hunting."

Dean scowled, heart pounding. "You leave him alone." His tone caught everyone's attention, and they all visibly tensed.

"Leave him alone?" His counterpart snorted. "You mean the way you left my brother alone? I know how they treat prisoners at that compound, and let me tell you something, what goes around comes around."

Crap!

Dean frantically shook his head. "Sam had nothing to do with that. He's innocent. Come on, man, you don't hurt innocent people." At least, Dean hoped he didn't. Hard to say for sure. He was from an alternate reality. God only knew what kind of person he actually was.

"Relax," the bastard said, softening his voice. "I don't have any interest in hurting your brother. I'm just trying to save mine. So here's the deal. We know where he is. The monster that possessed your uncle apparently brought him to Eve, and unlike you morons, she knows all about Cas, including how to cripple him. He doesn't have the power to fight her, so he can't just swoop in to save the day. We need reinforcements. That's where you come in. If we work together, we can kill the bitch, and everyone's happy. I've done it before, so I know it's possible. Plus—if you agree to help—when I get my brother back, you can have your brother back, safe and sound. But if you refuse… well… who knows? Maybe I can talk Eve into a good old-fashioned horse trade."

Dean's blood ran cold. "You're bluffing."

"Let's not cross that bridge. When my brother's at stake, there's nothing I won't do, even if it means selling my soul to the devil himself, so don't test me. Work with me. I'll give you fifteen minutes to think it over. Choose carefully."

And with that, the line went dead.

 **SPN**

"You do realize you're committing the very crime you've threatened to kill people for committing, right?" Cas could not keep the irony out of his voice, but Dean's thoughts were elsewhere.

"He sounded genuinely upset." He furrowed his brow, glancing at Sam uncertainly. The kid shrugged.

"Yeah. He gets that way when he thinks I'm in danger."

Something wasn't adding up. Dean narrowed his eyes. "Then why are you so scared of him?" Sam opened his mouth to object, but Dean wasn't finished. "Don't bother denying it. Your tells are even more obvious than my real brother's. I know you're scared of him. I see it in the way you look at me."

Sam ducked his head. "I'm not scared of him. I just… can't trust him."

Dean wasn't sure whether to be relieved or even more confused. He was glad to hear his twin (probably) wasn't responsible for traumatizing his brother, but then, who was? Who could hurt Sam and get away with it, if not Dean? Not… not their father?

Before he could ask, the burner phone began to ring. It had only been a few minutes, but Prince Charming was already calling them back. Dean sighed, motioning for Sam to accept. Then, with the phone still on speaker, Dean growled, "So what'll it be?"

"Can you really kill Eve?" It wasn't Dean's voice on the other end. It was John's. Dean's chest tightened, and Sam's face blanched. Of course, it made more sense negotiating directly with the chief, but that didn't make it less painful. Dean missed his father.

"Yes," he said, fighting a lump in his throat. "With the right ingredients, I can forge a weapon that will kill Eve, and it will go a lot faster if you help."

"Give us Sam," John countered. "And then we'll help."

The kid's eyes widened, and he nearly dropped the phone. Bobby took a concerned step forward, but it wasn't necessary. Dean didn't even consider the offer.

"And why should I trust you? You've got zero credibility, and to be frank, I haven't seen one thing in this reality that doesn't piss me off, so from now on, I'm calling the shots. You can have your Sam back after I have my Sam back, not before, and that's final."

It was a lie. Dean had no intention of leaving Sam anywhere against his wishes, but his family didn't know that, which gave Dean the advantage.

A pause… "Let me speak to him."

Dean glanced from the phone up to Sam, nodding in approval.

The kid looked queasy and struggled to keep the reluctance from his voice, but he somehow managed to play his role as a frightened hostage. "Dad?"

"Sammy, are you hurt?" Even with his youngest on the line, John remained cold and to the point. Dean wasn't sure what he was expecting—John took threats to his children very seriously and was understandably irate—but there wasn't even a hint of tenderness in his voice.

"I'm fine," Sam assured him. "Just a little freaked out. Is he telling the truth about his brother?"

"It's all a misunderstanding," John had the audacity to claim. Dean clenched his fists, but held his tongue. "Everything's going to be okay. Just stay calm and do what they tell you. I don't want you provoking them, you hear me, boy? They're dangerous."

"Yes sir," Sam whispered.

"All right, that's enough," Dean interrupted, anxious to move things along. "Do we have a deal or not?"

John grunted. "I was already planning to help you. You didn't have to drag my son into this."

"Actually," Dean retorted. "You were planning to bench me while prioritizing your own family drama, and I don't have the patience for that. Not when my brother is a prisoner. Now, we can either help each other, or I can do this on my own, at any cost. So what will it be?"

After another long pause, John eventually said, "Tell you what… We're on our way to the compound, where we're planning to apprehend my cousin, Will Campbell. He's the hunter who condoned your brother's abduction, and he's also the hunter who mysteriously released him. I have reason to question his allegiance, and considering his involvement with your brother's predicament, you might want to question him yourself. It would be mutually beneficial for your friend to ambush him and take him into custody. Is that something you can arrange?"

Dean had to admit, he liked the idea. He was itching to find someone he could blame for this whole nightmare. But what about Sam? Could he afford the delay? Apparently, he was immune to Eve's infection, and therefore, she considered him her responsibility. She wanted "to take him under her wing." But what did that really mean? If she wasn't going to kill him, and if she couldn't convert him, what exactly did she have up her sleeve? No. Dean couldn't justify wasting time for the sake of retribution.

"Forget Campbell," he said. "We need to concentrate on forging the weapon."

"I don't think so," John retorted. "If you expect us to work together now that you've threatened my son, you need to give me something as a show of good faith. And since you're refusing to give me Sam until we save your brother, you need to find another way to prove I can trust you to maintain your end of the bargain. Bring me Campbell as a peace offering, and we'll have a deal."

Dean grimaced. At this rate, it would probably take longer to argue with the old man than it would to simply comply with his demands. "All right, fine. You give us your cousin's location, and we'll meet you in the compound lobby when you arrive."

 **SPN**

It would never end.

The cavern walls featured hundreds, if not thousands, of grasping hands, and they all craved a turn with their new captive, eager to acquaint themselves with every inch of him. Sam was slowly passed around the room, forced to endure the same rough treatment over and over and over again. Sometimes, he was even hauled off the ground, so the hands overhead could also participate. It would have been humiliating if it wasn't so painful. The damn things didn't know their own strength, and they were determined to keep Sam in their clutches, squeezing his limbs tighter than necessary. By now, he was covered in bruises, and his injuries from the compound were only getting worse. On the off chance that he did escape, he might not be able to walk. His pelvis was killing him from the bone marrow biopsy, and he couldn't help but whimper through the hand that was clamped over his mouth.

It was never going to end.

After what felt like days, Sam found his feet back on the cold, solid ground. He shivered when he realized his slippers had been stolen. He didn't even notice. Eventually, this monster would take everything. He was completely at its mercy, and its appetite was growing. Alarmed, he frantically writhed against its grip, but its arms reached out and wrapped around him, subjecting him to a crushing embrace. He thrashed with all the energy he had left, but it was quickly draining away, and all too soon, he was sagging miserably, struggling to breathe through the heavy palm.

Finally, Eve returned. At this point, Sam was so desperate for a change, any change, that he was almost glad to see her. Maybe she would take pity on him and move him somewhere else… somewhere safe…

"Good evening, Sam," she said, approaching him with a warm smile and a picnic basket. Her appearance obviously pleased the monster, who stretched some of its arms out to greet her. She took the opportunity to caress each of them like beloved pets. Sam squirmed at the sight. "I'm sorry for making you wait, my dear. There's just so much competing for my attention, but I trust you weren't starved for company." She placed the basket on the ground and slipped her hand beneath the lid to extract a small juice box. "Are you thirsty?" She pulled off the straw, removed the wrapper, and popped it through the seal. "Here…" She held the box up to Sam's mouth, which the monster quickly uncovered. "Drink."

Sam hesitated, staring at the straw while licking his parched lips. It pained him to accept anything from her, and while he could use the nourishment, he wasn't sure his stomach could take it. He shook his head. "No… I'm sick. I won't be able to keep it down."

Eve wasn't fazed. "That's precisely why you need to drink, Sam. You need your strength." With her free hand, she cupped his cheek. "Don't you want to be at the top of your game when that angel comes looking for you?" Her tone was light and patronizing. "Not that he'll succeed, but the least you can do is recuperate. So drink." She forced the straw through his lips and squeezed the box. Juice poured into his mouth, and he swallowed despite himself.

"Good boy…" When she was satisfied, she pulled the box away and set it on the ground next to the basket. Then, she procured a stack of saltines. When Sam refused to eat them, her patience waned. "Very well," she admonished. "If that's the way you're going to be, I'll just leave these snacks here for you to try later." She placed the crackers back in the basket. "I'm sure Keforakas will enjoy learning how to feed you, and I guarantee he won't take no for an answer."

Sam moaned. "You can deny it all you like, but you're no better than the Syndicate."

"Oh, sweetie," she said with a pout. "I know you're not feeling well, but there's no reason to get nasty. Now then." She gave him a quick once-over while levitating to match his height. "We have a lot of work ahead of us, don't we, Sam? But it's okay. I'm not like the Syndicate. I think you'll find my 'preliminary inspection' to be far less brutal." And with that, she leaned in… kissing him firmly on the mouth.

 **SPN**

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	23. Rendezvous

**SPN**

Allowing their precious specimen to escape was never part of the plan. Neither was killing Dr. Visyak, or contending with two interlopers from the specimen's reality. Will Campbell, deputy chief of the Prime Hunting Syndicate, could not remember the last time he suffered such enormous setbacks. It was frustrating, to say the least, but he wasn't the kind of man who wallowed in his failures. He was on a mission, and he couldn't afford to second-guess himself.

The compound had been compromised. If Dr. Visyak could be a monster, anyone could be a monster. The security systems were no longer reliable, and enough was enough. For the sake of the Syndicate, and all of humanity, certain sacrifices were sometimes required.

Over the course of the day, he disposed of the traitor's body, initiated lockdown, and discreetly prepared for the purge. All non-essential personnel were summoned to the main assembly hall, where they were told to wait while Newport officials 'performed a surprise inspection of the entire compound.' In reality, Campbell planned to release high levels of carbon monoxide into the sealed room, eliminating most of the staff. Those who survived would then be wiped out when he triggered the self-destruct (from the safety of his helicopter). Everything would be vaporized to prevent Eve from gaining a foothold in the Syndicate. She had to be repelled at any cost—even if it meant a massacre. After all, this was for the greater good.

Thirty minutes to go.

Campbell watched somberly as Dr. Robert and Danielle Thompson packed up all their records and the specimen samples they took from Sam. The boy's immunity remained their single advantage over the enemy, and therefore, despite the gravity of the situation, Campbell could not bring himself to forfeit their research. Dr. Robert and Danielle would be spared; they would evacuate with Campbell in his helicopter, and they would continue their work at the bunker. Of course, they had no idea how lucky they were. Campbell didn't bother to explain, and they knew better than to question his commands. They were both fine soldiers, dedicated to the cause, but even they might object to his methods. For now, the less they knew, the better.

Presently, his cell phone vibrated. Good. He was expecting the call, and when he retrieved the device from his pocket, he read 'Gordon Walker' on the display screen. Taking a few steps back, away from his colleagues, he answered in a calm, quiet voice. "What's your status?"

"I got the psychic," Gordon replied. "She's a real piece of work. Had to restrain her, and then some. But she's on her way. We'll be at the bunker by dawn."

Campbell rolled his eyes. Gordon was an elite, solitary hunter—trustworthy and loyal—but sometimes a pain in the ass. "You know, you catch more flies with honey."

"She'll do her job," Gordon promised. "I guarantee it."

"She better," Campbell warned him. He needed the psychic for two reasons. One, he had to make sure monsters weren't infiltrating the bunker as well as the compound. Two, he had to recover Sam. Hopefully, with all the specimen samples they took from the boy, the psychic would have the necessary DNA to pinpoint his location. Who knows? They might even track down their own Sam in the process. If possible, Campbell would love to get his hands on both. "Do me a favor, Gordon. Contact Paul Russell from PHS-14. They're in the middle of a hunt, and I need them to report to the bunker. Not the compound. Understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. I'll see you in the morning." Terminating the call, Campbell focused back on Dr. Robert and Danielle. They were making ample progress; it wouldn't be much longer now.

Needless to say, nothing could have prepared him for the sound of fluttering wings that came from behind. Turning, he caught sight of four intruders. Sam and Dean, dressed in civvies. The mysterious unsub in the khaki trench coat. And an unkempt stranger who strongly resembled a trucker. The hell? Dean and the 'trucker' were both wielding M1911 pistols, and they wore dangerous expressions on their faces. If Campbell so much as reached for his Colt, he had no doubt they would shoot him. Unbelievable!

"Will Campbell?" Dean asked, startling Dr. Robert and Danielle. They both whipped around, gasping in horror, but neither of them were armed. With the compound on lockdown, and most of the personnel in the assembly hall, the guards were making their rounds elsewhere, and Campbell (for the second time in twenty-four hours) was vulnerable. He didn't like the feeling.

"Can I help you, son?" he asked, clenching his teeth. At the same time, he found his gaze drifting towards Sam. Was that… _his_ Sam? The boy looked properly distressed.

"You took my brother," Dean growled. "I should kill you."

"Then kill me." Campbell wasn't scared. He was a hunter, and he would never beg for his life.

Dean took a deep, calming breath. "Don't think I won't. But first, your boss would like to see you, and if he's anything like my dad, you're in for a world of hurt."

 **SPN**

Ethan knew he was playing a dangerous game, but that's part of what made it fun—and he needed all the fun he could get before he died. He was going to hell, he had no delusions about that, and so he had to make every second count. Fortunately, after all these years, he had mastered the game, and could play it in his sleep.

When they arrived outside the compound, they found the gate closed and the warning lights blinking red. Lockdown. Anyone else would be forced to turn around and try again later, but they had the chief in their company. John had access to the whole system through his personal tablet, and it didn't take him long to punch in the override. Soon, the gate opened, and the sentries on duty—recognizing the chief's armored limo—got out of their way.

It would still be another few minutes before they reached the main facility, and they made full use of the time to prepare their weapons. After all, a lockdown was no laughing matter. God only knew what triggered it. A breach in security? The specimen's escape? The unsub's interference? Or maybe—just maybe—Campbell was finally making his move against the chief. The old fart despised his boss, and Ethan always wondered if this day would ever come. He hoped it would. If John and Campbell destroyed each other, then Dean could take his rightful position as leader of the Syndicate.

Once the limo pulled up to the entrance, everyone scrambled out. John, Dean, Ethan, Gwen, six elite hunters, and two suits from Internal Affairs. They hastened up the steps to the automatic doors, which were sealed shut. John impatiently pressed his thumb against the scanner on the keypad, then typed in his personal code. The doors slid open, and they marched into the vestibule—an enclosed space with ballistic glass walls. To proceed into the lobby, they would have to venture through the full-body security scanner. No exceptions.

Just to be safe, John motioned for three of the elite hunters to go first. They passed through in single file, taking up defensive positions on the other side. John followed, with Dean on his heels, then Gwen, then the investigators, then Ethan, then the remaining three hunters.

"Where is everyone?" Dean asked as they surveyed the empty lobby. Even on lockdown, the room should be swarming with guards, but there wasn't a soul in sight. Something was wrong. It thrilled Ethan to the core.

A fluttering sound presaged the sudden appearance of their tentative allies. Dean's counterpart (Ethan would refer to him as the Phony). The unsub (apparently named Castiel). An unfamiliar old civilian with a scruffy brown beard and a nice pistol. Three prisoners: Campbell, Dr. Robert, and Danielle. And finally, last but not least, the prodigal son.

"Sammy!" Dean rushed toward his little brother, who stood at the back of the group. Immediately, Castiel blocked his path while the Phony checked to make sure Sam remained safely behind him. Supposedly, the little pest was their hostage, but to Ethan, the strangers seemed more protective than possessive… and he of all people would know the difference. As for Sam, his whole demeanor was pathetic. True, he might be stronger, taller, and healthier than Ethan remembered, but he was still shaky, self-conscious, and defenseless. When he wasn't staring at the floor, his eyes were lit with anguish—like a kicked puppy—and Ethan would have liked nothing more than to snap each of his fingers, one by one, just to make him cry.

Dean, of course, wasn't happy with the obstruction. He tried to sidestep around Castiel, but the unsub wasn't having it. He easily countered Dean's advances, and for now, his notoriety was daunting enough to keep the big brother at bay. Dean growled in frustration. "Give me a break! I just want to make sure he's all right!"

"He's fine," Castiel spoke in a stern, threatening voice. "But you will keep your distance. We only brought him as a courtesy for your peace of mind, not so you can have him back. Until our Sam is safe, he remains off limits, and if you come anywhere near him, I'll be forced to move him somewhere else, do you understand?"

Dean didn't answer, but he nevertheless stood down, backing off with his tail tucked between his legs.

Honestly! Ethan loved his friend more than life itself, but when would he accept the truth? Sam meant nothing. He was a wretched little freak, only good for one thing. Venting. When Ethan had to vent, Sam was the perfect outlet. Why must Dean care so much for a punching bag? (Albeit a fun punching bag. When the kid ran away, a part of Ethan genuinely missed him.)

Meanwhile, John, the two investigators, and the six hunters were all circling around Campbell, Dr. Robert, and Danielle. This just wasn't their day. Campbell tried to maintain his dignity, but he had to be embarrassed. First, he was possessed, then he was ambushed. Well, it served him right. He was an arrogant, selfish bastard who lacked the prudence to remove his microchip. No wonder he was such an easy target. He deserved the chief's fury.

"Will," John said with a scowl. "Do you have any shame?"

His deputy scoffed. "What exactly do you think I should be ashamed of?"

John bore down on him and roughly seized the gun from his side holster. The Colt. "This belongs to me."

Campbell shook his head. "You don't deserve it."

"I'm the chief," John replied. "Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

"Honestly, I didn't care," Campbell confessed. "We're at war, Johnny, but you're more concerned about your children's comfort than the fate of the Syndicate. After PHS-03's incident with Sam and Eve, I realized how pivotal the boy is to our success. His immunity's a gift from the gods, but I know you. You'd rather shelter him than use him. So I took the Colt from Rufus, and I made the decision to intercede on the Syndicate's behalf."

From the corner of his eye, Ethan saw Gwen covering her mouth. Will Campbell was her father! His betrayal must sting, and Ethan could sense her agitation. Mindful of his charade, he inched closer to her and rubbed her back, so she wouldn't feel shunned.

John could barely contain his disgust. "You're under arrest for subversion, theft, and kidnapping."

Campbell rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. The Syndicate belongs to my family, John Winchester. Not the likes of you. When Mary died, I should have been next in line, and the whole world knows it."

That was the final straw. John punched him so hard he went careening to the ground. Gwen jumped, and Ethan pulled her into his arms, glancing sideways at Sam. With everyone else focused on the confrontation, the little runt dared to look back at him, and he couldn't hide his alarm at the sight of Gwen's predicament. But he didn't object; he was too timid. How delightful.

Campbell sat up, glaring at John with a bloody nose. "I'm only doing what you don't have the balls to do! It's necessary to combat Eve!"

"Yeah, we'll see about that," John retorted, glancing over at the investigators. "Take him."

"Yes sir." They swept forward, brandishing a pair of handcuffs.

As they searched and subdued their prisoner, Campbell made one final statement. "You should know, the compound's been compromised. I was in the process of purging when those interlopers ambushed me. If the Syndicate means anything to you, you'll finish what I started."

It was like a bomb went off. Purging meant eradicating, and everyone knew the implications. While Dr. Robert, Danielle, and the chief's flunkies all angrily protested, Gwen shoved herself away from Ethan, only to launch herself at Campbell. "You son of a bitch!" She had reached her limit, and if John wasn't there to intercept her, she might have ripped her father's head off. "How can you keep justifying one crime after another!? Do you have any regard for human life!? I hate you!"

"Gwen…" Sam took a small, nervous step towards his childhood companion, but the Phony Dean and the bearded civilian both held him back.

Out of nowhere, a blazing white light washed over Castiel, and a chiming peal filled the room. His blue eyes glimmered with a supernatural radiance, and shadows of two broad wings unfurled behind him.

Ethan's stomach dropped, and he gazed at the creature with a slack jaw—as did the others. Silence ensued as they all grappled with an absurd, impossible, mind-blowing revelation. No. It couldn't be…

After reveling in their shock, Castiel quelled his exhibition and returned to normal. Then, focusing on the chief, he spoke in a dangerous voice. "My patience wears thin, John Winchester. I can assure you, the compound has not been compromised. The mother is too eager to rescue her children. If she could breach your security, she would have leveled the building by now. However, time is running out. She has Sam. If we fail to rescue him, I will personally smite every last member of your Syndicate. And I will not hold back."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Who doesn't love a badass Castiel!?_

 _I hope this chapter didn't drag. I was going to include more—I don't want to rush through the rising action—but it would have made this chapter much, much longer, so I decided to cut it off. Sorry!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	24. A Mother's Love

**SPN**

It took a long, drawn-out moment for the dumbstruck crowd to regain their wits. Dean couldn't help but smirk. Castiel was a force to be reckoned with, and it was hard to stay upset with him when he was so intent on saving Sam. Screw Naomi. Cas belonged with them. He was a part of their family, and nothing would ever change that.

Flustered, John proceeded to issue some rapid-fire commands. Three of his hunters were sent to call off Campbell's "purge," whatever the hell that meant. The other three hunters, plus the two suits, were told to escort Campbell and his accomplices to a holding cell where they would await their transfer back to Newport. Finally, with one crisis averted, Dean hoped they could focus on the real emergency. Killing Eve and getting his brother back.

Taking advantage of the lingering consternation, Dean performed a quick headcount. Bobby stood next to him with Sam slightly between them, slightly behind them. Cas held his position as their angelic "muscle," squaring off against Dean's twin, while over to the right, Gwen huddled behind John. The only other person was a tall, dark-haired stranger in a Syndicate uniform with a black tactical vest. At his side, he casually and single-handedly gripped a submachine gun, but judging by his stunned expression, he was no more threatening than the others, and Dean quickly glossed over him.

His attention veered back toward John as the chief approached him. For someone whose entire worldview had just been shaken, he was able to adapt with remarkable ease. Dean sensed Sam cringing under the man's steely gaze, and protectively sidled the rest of the way in front of him. John never failed to intimidate. He was naturally imposing with his broad shoulders and robust face. But on top of all that, here in this reality, he was well-groomed and dapper in his fancy clothes. Powerful, affluent, and overbearing, he was definitely not someone to mess around with.

Then again, neither was Lucifer. Or Death. Or Dick Roman. Or half the monsters Dean killed in Purgatory. He stood his ground, more than willing to drop the chief if he made one wrong move on Sam.

Perhaps realizing this, John abruptly changed tactics and turned to regard Bobby. "Now who might you be?"

To his credit, Bobby didn't flinch. "Oh, just a poor civilian," he said, gritting his teeth. "Not someone who answers to you." It was hard not to picture him with a shotgun, threatening to blast Dean's father full of buckshot to drive him from his property. However, in this case, Bobby's temper was little more than bravado. He was in over his head, and they all knew it.

John grunted, unimpressed. "What's a 'civilian' doing here?" He made the word sound distasteful.

"Back off," Dean growled. "He's with me."

"He didn't come to this reality with you," John observed, his narrowed eye darting from Bobby to Sam. "Where'd you find him?"

"Leave him alone," Sam nervously protested, much to Dean's chagrin. Poor kid should've kept his mouth shut. Now, everyone in the vicinity knew he was concerned with Bobby's welfare, and since Bobby was collaborating with his "captors," maybe he wasn't as much of a hostage as they feared. Dean could practically see the gears turning in John's head as he pondered Sam's relationship with a "civilian."

They needed to get back on track.

"Look, are we gonna kill Eve or not?" Dean angrily interjected. "Cause if you go back on your word, Castiel will be the least of your problems."

John crossed his arms. "And how exactly do you propose we kill the mother of all monsters? There hasn't been a phoenix sighting in eight hundred years!"

Eight hundred!? Well, so much for Sunrise, Wyoming.

Dean shrugged. "Who needs phoenix ash? We've got something better." He motioned for Cas to take the helm.

"In our reality, we've obtained access to several tablets inscribed with the Word of God. They are very instructional, and they document the formulas for some powerful spells and weapons. With the proper ingredients, we can take the fight to Eve, and destroy her."

Their audience might have been a little more skeptical if they hadn't just seen Cas in all his glory, but they still required a moment to process the angel's claim. Meanwhile, Dean glanced discreetly at his twin, wondering how he was dealing with the situation. He found the prince trading looks with the tall, dark-haired stranger. They were openly sharing their alarm, which caught Dean off guard. Okay, so they were friends. Good friends. The stranger wasn't just some random hunter. He had the prince's trust. But who was he? Dean didn't recognize him.

"You want to use a God weapon?" John eventually reiterated, fixing his gaze on Dean. "That's something you'd stake your brother's life on?"

He nodded. "It'll work."

"Then what do we need?" John couldn't pass up an opportunity to kill Eve. He wanted to win the war as much as anyone, and now that he was standing in the presence of an angel, it must not have seemed as impossible as it had thirty minutes ago.

Cas gave a brief rundown of the ingredients. "The weapon calls for a bone of a righteous mortal bathed in the blood of an angel, an alpha, and the ruler of fallen humanity, commonly referred to as the king of hell. Now, I suspect a hunting Syndicate of your caliber collects a wide variety of human remains for the sake of spell work. I can provide the angel blood. This compound can provide the alpha blood. That means we're only missing one piece of the puzzle."

"But hell doesn't have a king," John objected. "It's anarchy downstairs."

"No, demons are too power-hungry," Dean assured him with a growing pit in his stomach. He wasn't looking forward to this particular task. "Someone's gotta be big man on campus. My guess? Yellow Eyes or Lilith." His two personal favorites.

"They're both dead," John asserted, much to his surprise.

"Seriously?"

"Mary's father killed Azazel with the Colt," John explained. "I saw it myself. And Ethan over here killed Lilith with a formidable, ancient curse." He indicated the tall, dark-haired stranger, who began to fidget under all the attention.

Dean gaped at him. " _Seriously!?_ "

Prince Charming couldn't help but smirk, and he playfully nudged Ethan with his elbow. "Yeah, it was awesome."

Ethan shrugged. "Well, what do you expect? The psycho bitch was stalking Sam. She had it coming."

Dean turned to glance back at the kid, who was staring at his feet, tense and uncomfortable. How much did they know about his… demon problem? Lilith was dead, but there was never an apocalypse in this reality, which meant the final seal was broken out of order, which made Sam… safe. Lucifer would never rise. Did they have any idea what Prince Charming's friend managed to accomplish? Did they have any idea how much they owed him? Dean's gaze whipped back towards Ethan. "Okay… You're awesome!"

Ethan's face flushed, and a sheepish smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"So if it's not Azazel or Lilith," Cas interrupted, getting back to business. "Who's next in line? Crowley?" They glanced uncertainly at John, who shook his head.

"He's just a salesman."

"You know, there have been rumors," Ethan began, eager to help. "I should have mentioned them earlier, but I haven't been able to verify their validity, and the Syndicate's been so focused on Eve, it never seemed like a good time."

John waved off his contrition. "What have you heard?"

"Just a name… but a lot of demons are starting to rally behind it."

"What's the name?" Dean asked.

Ethan met his gaze. "Alastair."

 **SPN**

Eve's kiss was detestable. The mother might look like a young woman, but her true form (glimpsed through cameras) was rotten and macabre. Sam could taste the filth; he could smell the decay. He tried turning his head, but half a dozen hands were bracing it tightly, so he couldn't move. He strained against them, but wasn't strong enough, and his futile efforts only managed to excite the monster. While Eve kissed him, apparently using his mouth as a conduit to explore and assess the nature of his being, countless hands continued to squeeze and pull and pinch. It was a nightmare, and Sam couldn't stop the smothered protests from escaping his throat.

Gradually, as Eve delved in deeper, she began sifting through different facets of his existence. The sensation wasn't quite painful—Eve was nothing if not gentle—but it was violating, much like the time Cas reached in to search for his missing soul. Sam bristled in mounting anger. She didn't have the right! God, he was so sick of bad guys trying to manipulate him. He didn't want to be a special child, or Lucifer's vessel, or anything else. He didn't want this life. Why couldn't they all just leave him alone!?

A fire burned deep in his core, spreading outwards in a fearsome blaze, only to swerve into his right arm, where it churned indignantly. Sam felt the heat first. Then, peering down, he saw a radiant glow that flared from his elbow to his fingertips, accentuating the veins beneath his skin. It startled the monster—enough to weaken its grip. Sam immediately shook his head, pushing and plowing with the last of his energy in a desperate attempt to break free. Eve floated backwards, and he toppled forward, landing awkwardly on his hands and knees.

He did it!

Heart pumping, Sam tossed his hair from his face and surveyed the cavern. The Tiki torches were still casting their beacons, chasing away the shadows, exposing the escape tunnel. His fingers clawed through loose soil… his knees scraped over jagged stones… In the distance, he could hear Eve harping, but her words didn't register—he was too distracted. He could make it, but he had to hurry!

Something snatched his ankle.

"NO!"

He kicked it away with his other foot.

Something else snatched the back of his flannel pants. He rolled over, breaking its grip. Rolling back around, he scrambled upright.

Something cuffed the side of his head, and he careened to the ground. His breath was completely knocked out of him, and in that moment, the monster had him. His ankles were both ensnared, and his legs were pinned beneath a ton of bricks—at least, that's what it felt like.

"NO!"

Consumed by fear and frustration, he struggled to worm his way forward, wriggling helplessly. His glowing arm began to sting, and unbidden tears filled his eyes. He shook his head. "LET ME GO!"

He sensed Eve kneeling down next to him. He twisted, swinging his fists, but she blocked each strike, eventually clamping his wrists together between her tiny—but suppressive—hands. He shouted as the pain intensified. In the far corners of his mind, he vaguely recalled the first trial. Killing a hellhound. Reciting the spell. Collapsing in agony.

" _Sam… You're damaged in ways even I can't heal."_

Eve's invasive probing obviously dredged up his supernatural ailment, and now his arm was killing him. He convulsed miserably, unable to breathe, unable to think…

 _Dean… Help me!_

"It's okay, sweetie… Everything's gonna be okay…"

Gradually, Eve's voice broke through the haze. Sam found himself lying on his side, panting heavily, thoroughly drained, and covered in sweat. Dozens of the monster's hands were still clutching his legs, but for now, they were motionless, awaiting the mother's command. Eve smiled. "That's it… Just take your time."

Sam moaned. His arm was back to normal, and he was back in Eve's control. It wasn't fair. "You bitch…"

Eve sighed. "I know. I didn't intend to trigger a reaction like that, but I didn't realize you were resonating. I should have been more careful. I apologize." She tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, which made him flinch. Bile rose in his throat, and he squirmed uncomfortably.

"Let me go."

"And what would that accomplish?" she asked patiently. "Look what you've done to yourself. If I don't keep an eye on you, you'll only make it worse. That's not healthy, Sam."

"It's none of your business," he snapped.

She frowned, abruptly catching his jaw in her iron grip. He winced as she leaned towards him. "Mind your tone with me."

He fumed, glaring at her with all the defiance he could muster. "Why? Cause you're mother of the year? Screw you!"

She squeezed, and pain flared through his jaw. He gasped, clenching his eyes shut.

"I can see we're not making any progress," she lamented. "You're immune, and you're resonating. Your body's taxed to the limit. If I try converting you, I doubt you'd survive. A pity." She slid her other hand behind his head and drew him into her arms, pressing his face against her bosom. He flushed, heart racing, but his body was limp, and his muscles inert. He couldn't fight.

"Sshhh…" she cooed, stroking his hair. "This doesn't change anything, my darling little boy. You're still precious to me. A mother's love never fades."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	25. Business Before Pleasure

_**Author's Note:**_ _A special thanks to_ _ **Fiery Charizard**_ _for helping me write this chapter to the best of my ability. :-)_

 **SPN**

For obvious security reasons, the Syndicate could not—and would not—summon a demon directly to the compound. Rather, they conveyed a large troop of hunters three miles up the mountain to an off-site warehouse, one of many throughout the country. Such facilities gave the Syndicate reliable fronts for supernatural showdowns, especially against demons. The storage space contained no supplies, no equipment, no sign of occupation—it was basically an empty room with a coated concrete floor and a mezzanine office high up on a corner balcony.

When Sam trudged into the office, by himself, he didn't bother switching on the lamps. The room had wide observation windows overlooking the storage space, so plenty of light poured in from the rest of the facility. Honestly, he preferred the dark, felt safer in the dark, less exposed…

" _Okay… You're awesome!"_

When Dean's counterpart—the stranger from a distant reality—praised Ethan for killing Lilith, everything inside Sam turned to ice. He had thought, maybe, just maybe, he could trust the man who showed him such compassion, such concern… But of course it turned out Dean's counterpart was no different from the others. He meant well, but he couldn't see… would never see… Sam shuddered.

Downstairs, the chief was busy briefing his hunters on the situation—they were in the process of compiling a weapon with the juice to kill Eve, but required one more ingredient. Upon forging the weapon, they would embark on a rescue mission to save an alternate version of Sam, who had been kidnapped by a horde of monsters. According to Castiel—an angel!—Eve was holding her captive in a cave near the Montana-Idaho border. They had the coordinates, so they knew exactly where they were going, but their enemies would be expecting them. They had to exercise extreme caution.

Meanwhile, Dean and his counterpart were spray painting a giant devil's trap on the warehouse floor, covering the whole expanse. When the time came to summon Alastair, they had to make sure he landed inside the symbol, so he couldn't escape. Despite their cooperation, they didn't try to hide their disgruntlement. One was still upset that he wasn't allowed to check on his brother. (Bobby and Castiel were both guarding the balcony steps, so no one could follow Sam up into the office.) And the other was still upset about the demon's identity.

Alastair.

From the moment Ethan spoke the name, a change had come over Dean's counterpart. With his brother in danger, he had always been tense, angry, focused… but from that moment, he became agitated. Even a little scared.

" _Are you freakin' kidding me!?" he exclaimed back on the compound. "Alastair!?" Despite the aggression in his voice, a visible tremor rippled through him. "Great. Cause that's just what we need, on top of everything else!"_

" _I take it you know him," John grumbled._

" _Actually, we don't," Castiel replied. "Alternate reality, remember?" He turned to his friend with unmistakable urgency. "Dean, you don't have the same history here. You don't have to make this personal."_

 _The man glared at the angel with a look of hostility. "You know what? I'm glad it's him. Maybe now I can finally kill the bastard."_

He continued fuming all the way from the compound to the warehouse. When they entered the facility, he began barking orders like the chief himself, and when he told Sam to hide out in the mezzanine office, no one dared question him. Now, Sam sat curled up on the floor, away from the observation windows, with his back pressed up against the wall. It was almost a relief, having an opportunity to distance himself from his family. He missed them. God, he missed them. But he wasn't ready to face them. Dean's worry and his dad's discipline were overwhelming. They didn't understand…

Why the hell did he agree to this? His family—the whole Syndicate—would be on the lookout for a chance to separate him from his "captors." They would drag him back home, lock him in his room, and leave him for Ethan to…

For Ethan to…

Sam's heart hammered in his chest.

But what choice did he have? His safety wasn't the priority. Killing Eve and saving innocent lives… That was the priority.

A small knock on the office door disturbed his brooding. He flinched, startled, but it was only Castiel. When the angel found him on the floor, his brow furrowed, and his blue eyes softened. He entered the room, closing the door behind him. "Are you all right?" Concern seeped into his gravelly voice.

Sam shook his head. (How much trouble would he be in if he lied to an angel?) "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course." He gingerly approached, treating Sam like a wounded animal, and knelt beside him.

It took a moment to gather his thoughts. Then, he whispered, "If you're really an angel, can't you ask God to intercede for us?"

"Oh, Sam…" Castiel's gaze drifted away, and he paused, contemplating his answer. Sam waited anxiously, barely aware that he was shaking. After a beat, Castiel pursed his lips. "There's no easy way to explain this, but God has distanced himself from his creation, even from his angels. We've all prayed to him, but all we hear is a deep, profound silence."

Sam caught his breath.

In the back of his mind, Ethan's voice echoed maliciously. _"No one can help you, pretty boy."_

"But… how can he do that?" He couldn't hide his anguish. "We need him!"

 _I need him._

"I know," Castiel gently acknowledged. "Believe me, I share your distress. For a long time, his absence angered me. I even used it as justification for sinful behavior, of which I'm not proud. But… I've sought penance, and I've pondered the significance of doubt. Do you know what I've learned, Sam?" Their gazes met. "Doubt… is powerful. It makes us kinder, less ruthless, more humane… And contrary to popular opinion, faith—true faith—requires it. Faith that springs from doubt is strong. I've seen it in your counterpart—the Sam from my reality. His faith—whether it's in God, or Dean, or even himself—has proven time and time again that a light does shine in the dark."

His words were soothing, but changed nothing. Sam still felt hollow, and tears brimmed in his eyes. "How am I supposed to believe that?"

The angel sagged, crestfallen. "Sam… What are you really running from? You can tell me, if no one else…"

He shook his head, haunted by Ethan's smug voice.

" _I bought him, Sammy. Deal of a lifetime, and I negotiated for a lifetime. That means I own him till the day he dies. That means you'll never come between us, and more importantly, my…_ cravings _… will never be denied." He chuckled. "It's friggin' amazing what they'll sell to you for something as trivial as your soul…"_

He could still feel Ethan's thumb tenderly stroking his bottom lip. He could still feel…

Don't go there. Just don't.

Sam forced himself to breathe. He closed his eyes, and focused on his immediate surroundings. It was cold. Pine filled the air. He was _here_. Now. The person beside him was calm and benign.

Let the past stay in the past.

Another knock on the door announced another arrival. Sam and Castiel both glanced up to see Dean—the foreign Dean—peering in at them. His gaze locked onto the angel. "It's time."

 **SPN**

To avoid defacing the giant devil's trap on the floor of the warehouse, Ethan scrounged up a folding table, which they used as an altar. John supervised as he produced an arcane sigil with a stick of charcoal. They dumped the necessary ingredients for the summoning ritual into a cauldron, and lit half a dozen votive candles.

Meanwhile, the troop of hunters took up strategic positions around the periphery of the room, gripping fire hoses that (if necessary) would discharge holy water. Dean was brandishing his knife; Castiel, his angel blade; and Prince Charming, the Colt. Alastair was strong, but they were ready. At least, as ready as they would ever be.

John spoke the incantation from memory. "Attenrobendum eos, ad consiendrum, ad ligandum eos, potiter et solvendum, et ad, congregontum eos, coram me." He sliced his palm with an athame, and poured his blood into the cauldron, which triggered a small eruption. Flames billowed angrily, casting sparks around the altar, but only for a moment. Then, the fire died, and silence ensued as the hunters watched and waited, cautious and alert.

If not for a year in Purgatory, Dean wasn't sure how he'd be handling any of this. He tried not to think about his stint downstairs, he tried to bury it deep, but nothing could fend off his recurring nightmares. They would torment him till the day he died.

Alastair…

Any old demon could make Dean fear for his family. That was no secret. But fearing for himself? Not even Yellow Eyes could accomplish that. His life didn't matter, so what could demons do to him?

But Alastair… He was the exception. He knew Dean in ways that no one ever would—not Cas, and especially not Sam. God forbid. That bastard stripped away everything he had, reducing him to something vile, broken…

Damned.

A fire burned inside him, invigorating him—and thanks to Purgatory, he could pretend it was the familiar compulsion to survive… the wild, savage instinct… primitive and pure…

It had to be.

Nothing else.

 _Please be nothing else._

Suddenly, the overhead lights began flickering, and the smell of sulfur filled the room. Tensions were high, but still, the hunters stood their ground. They were trained for this. The Syndicate had to be good for something.

He materialized in the empty space before them. Tall and slim, he wore polished shoes, dark slacks, and a loose overcoat. Perched on a long neck, his oval head featured short chestnut hair, a mustache and chin straps. His sunken eyes were completely white, and a cold, cruel smile stretched over his face.

"In the interest of full disclosure," he said in a casual, nasally drawl. "I've taken special precautions…" He raised his left arm out to the side, making sure they could all see the detonator in his hand. "To prepare for this obligatory confrontation." His thumb was already pressing down on the red button. "Dead man's switch," he explained. "Ingenious device."

Crap!

For a long minute, no one moved. They were too busy staring at the bomb strapped to the demon's chest, barely visible beneath the flaps of his coat. If he released the trigger, if his thumb so much as moved, the subsequent explosion would destroy everything, killing the hunters and breaking the devil's trap. Only Cas and Alastair would survive—and the angel had yet to beat the demon in a fight. One wrong move and they were screwed.

Mustering his composure, John stepped around the makeshift altar and boldly approached his enemy. "A bomb? Really? Isn't that a little mundane for the likes of you?"

Alastair sneered. "Why, if it isn't the chief himself…" His eyes rolled from white to his host's natural blue. "You make a compelling argument. I'm not one who normally skips the pleasantries… But I've learned from the mistakes of my predecessors, and if you force my hand, I'll sacrifice my toys for the sake of survival… however reluctantly."

"That won't be necessary," John assured him, finding the right balance to challenge the demon without provoking him. "Our fight's not with you. It's with Eve. And I know for a fact she's not fond of your ilk. She considers you rancid food—only suitable for swine." Alastair sniffed at the gibe. "So I thought, since we share a common foe, perhaps we could come to an agreement?"

He lifted his brow. "The Syndicate wants to make a deal with the devil?" He clucked his tongue. "My, aren't these interesting times?" His gaze drifted towards Cas. "And look at you, big boy! Does daddy know you're out of bed? He'd be so disappointed."

Cas scowled, and Dean reflexively sidled between him and the demon. Not that Cas needed his protection, but this was Alastair! Dean's emotions were raging within him—fear at war with hatred and a thirst for blood. He tightened his grip on the knife, eager to finish what he started on that grim night four years ago. Eager to kill the son of a bitch, bomb or no bomb.

"What are you doing up here, Alastair?" he demanded, venom dripping from his voice. "You're not a leader. You're an artist."

"That's what I keep telling myself…" Alastair cocked his head, glancing from Dean over to Prince Charming, and back again. His blue eyes twinkled in amusement. "It's a constant struggle between duty and desire, but if I don't take the helm, who will?" He looked Dean up and down, suggestively. "You know, there's something about you I can't quite put my finger on."

Dean scoffed. "And you never will."

It was obvious he loathed the demon, and Alastair couldn't hide his sadistic itch to poke at the raw nerve, but thankfully, he was in no position to try. "It would be a terrible shame to blow you up, son, just when we're starting to get to know each other. But I will if you don't release me now."

"Not so fast," John cut in. "We called you here for a reason. If you're really the one in charge of the pit, we need a sample of your blood for a weapon that will kill Eve."

"Ah."

"Here's the deal," John continued. "You donate some blood, we let you go, and you let us kill Eve. No one else has to get hurt. At least not tonight. Or… you can blow us all the hell up, but where's the fun in that?"

The demon smiled, shifting his weight as he pondered the transaction. "Hmm… Killing Eve would certainly fall under the 'win' category. Might I ask who designed this weapon of yours?"

Cas stepped around Dean. "Who do you think?"

Alastair nodded. "The big guy, huh? Well, okay then. I'll take one for the team…" A cruel smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "But if anyone's gonna be drawing my blood… I'd like it to be Sam. I know he's here. I can smell him."

Dean nearly lost it. Oh, hell no! He would have launched himself at the demon if Cas wasn't there to pull him back. "You mention my brother and your blood in the same sentence ever again, and I'll make you _beg_ for death!"

"Dean, no!" Cas exclaimed, gritting his teeth. "That's not helping!"

While everyone else gawked, Alastair grinned. "Touchy, are we? Just wait till I get started."

Dean shook his head. "Bring it on, you dick!"

"That's enough!" John snapped, managing to stem the tide with his commanding tone. He wasn't Dean's father… not really. But in a way… he was. Caught off guard, Dean registered his dad's voice and faltered despite himself. Satisfied, John focused back on Alastair. "Forget Sam. This deal's between us. I'll draw your blood."

The demon sighed. "Very well."

John quickly produced the athame from the summoning ritual, along with a glass vial, and made quick work of the gory acquisition. As the blade carved through the palm of his free hand, Alastair gasped with a blissful expression on his ugly face. "We should do this again sometime."

John grunted.

Once he capped the vial, he motioned for Prince Charming to spray paint a line across the floor, defacing the devil's trap.

Alastair winked. "Pleasure doing business with you."

And with that, he was gone.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	26. Departure

**SPN**

It didn't take long to realize the monster was playing with him… After Eve kissed him good night and left him to rot with Keforakas, Sam assumed all those hands would tighten their grips to prevent another escape attempt. Well, he was wrong, and twenty or thirty minutes later, the monster let him go. Confused, he stumbled forward, desperate to get away, but skeptical of his release. Deciding not to question it, he made a break for the escape tunnel, but then, several arms stretched out from the wall, wrapped around his waist, and reeled him back.

Sam shouted, kicking his legs in frustration as the monster eagerly took hold of him. More hands caught his wrists and hair, while another pressed up against the front of his throat. He knew exactly what it was doing—whenever he yelled, his voice box seemed to attract the most attention. They couldn't hear, but they could certainly feel, and they obviously loved the sensation. Sam moaned, squirming in discomfort.

Shortly after that, they released him again. Sam's knees buckled, but he refused to give up. As quickly as his legs could carry him, he trudged towards the tunnel, praying with every step that he would make it. No such luck. Hands came at him from different sides, latching onto his wrists and yanking his arms out to the left and right. He stopped short, helpless as they began pulling him in both directions. "No!"

Pain flared through his shoulders as his arms were stretched to their limits. "No, stop! STOP!" But the monster couldn't hear him, and it continued its tug-o-war match for several long minutes, allowing one side to drag him several steps in one direction before the other side could reclaim its lost ground. It was all Sam could do not to panic. The monster was freakin' playing with him! Like a toy! And if it pulled much harder, it would rip his arms from their sockets.

What if it didn't realize? Eve said that Keforakas would care for him, but how intelligent could the monster be? What if… what if it killed him by accident? Sam couldn't help but think of Lennie Small from _Of Mice and Men_. He wasn't safe here. He had to escape! But when the hands finally dropped his wrists, another snagged his hair. Sam grunted as it pulled. He reached his own hands up to grapple with it, but his strength was gone. He couldn't resist as he was wrenched back to the damn wall.

Keforakas clung to him with disturbing enthusiasm. Hands stroked his cheeks and forehead. They pinched and fondled the meat on his arms. They slid up under his shirt and caressed his stomach. Sam's heart fluttered, and he bucked wildly—it wouldn't be much longer now before the inquisitive monster explored farther down, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. "NO!" He tried twisting out of its clutches, but was no match for its relentless control. All too soon, he was reduced to a limp, depleted wretch, panting heavily and glistening with sweat.

Somehow, the monster recognized his poor condition and promptly reached for the juice box that Eve left along with the picnic basket. Sam's eyes widened. "No, don't!" The fingers in his hair jerked his head back while several other hands pried his mouth open. He squirmed as the box was brought to his face. Fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him still. The straw was angled toward the back of his throat, the box was squeezed, and the juice rushed in. He could either swallow or gag. He chose to swallow.

When the juice ran out, the empty box was hurled across the cavern, where a bored hand snatched it out of the air, turning it into another toy. Sam hoped it would distract the monster, but wasn't that fortunate. Hands were already rummaging through the picnic basket. When they resurfaced, they were holding the stack of saltine crackers and several packets of applesauce and jello. Oh God…

Sam watched in horror as the excited hands, working together, plunged into the food. A cracker was extracted from the bag and crumbled up, then dumped into Sam's mouth. He choked, unable to cough or spit before a heavy hand clamped down on top of him, sealing the crumbs inside. They gradually softened, turning into mush, and while he tried not to swallow, it was hard to fight his natural reflexes, especially with his head tilted so far back. The hand on his mouth grew impatient, digging its thumb and fingers into his cheeks. It gave his head a rough shake, addling him, making him succumb.

The moment he swallowed, his mouth was uncovered. A handful of applesauce was dumped in, closely followed by a handful of jello. The combined flavors—not to mention the combined textures—appalled him, and he gagged in disgust, but the palm was already back over his mouth. Sam swallowed, stomach turning, and he bellowed angrily, but in vain. The food kept coming. Crackers. Applesauce. Jello. Over and over and over again, until their stash was gone.

By then, Sam was too sick and miserable to register relief. Instead, he sagged as much as the monster allowed and watched in resignation as countless hands fiddled playfully with the trash. A stray palm landed on his mouth, heavy and oppressive. Fingers resumed their exploration, crawling up and down his skin, brushing beneath his clothes. He whimpered in alarm, but if they noticed his agitation, they embraced it.

They embraced him.

They would never let him leave.

Tears spilled from his eyes. He couldn't bear this. It was just too much. If Cas and Dean weren't able to find him—soon!—he didn't know how much longer he could cope.

 **SPN**

The troop of Syndicate hunters waited for a few more squads to join their ranks. PHS-02 with Mark and Johnny Campbell, Jo Harvelle, Annie Hawkins, and Ryan Price. PHS-03 with Ellen Harvelle, Rufus Turner, Courtney Park, Ridley Sheard, Nate Randolph, and Dan Troy. PHS-04 with Olivia Bertram, Matthew Marlowe, and Alex Shaw. (But not Christian Campbell. No one considered it wise to bring Christian on a rescue mission for a kid he originally abducted.) And finally, PHS-14 with Paul Russell, Peter Trent, Royce Gareth, Howard Yancey, Lyle Cameron, and Timothy Billington.

It wasn't often that so many squads gathered for a single hunt, but this wasn't an ordinary hunt. This was Eve, and she surrounded herself with an army of her 'children.' They would need an army of their own to survive.

Following the chief's lead, the visiting Dean Winchester changed out of his civvies to wear black fatigues, a black tactical vest, a black ski mask, and night-vision goggles mounted on a black helmet—just like everyone else. They would be fighting in the woods at night, and had to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. The angel, however, refused to cooperate—apparently, he was quite fond of his trench coat.

Sam and his mysterious friend, Bobby, would not be joining them. The youngest Winchester was a hostage, compelling the chief to assist 'the visitors.' Dean and the angel couldn't risk losing their leverage, so the angel sent Sam and Bobby somewhere 'safe.'

After mixing the blood and bathing the bone to forge a 'God weapon,' they were ready. The time had come at last to embark on a mission that would hopefully kill Eve and win the war.

 **SPN**

Flying with over a hundred humans in tow required more effort than Castiel expected. When they landed in the woods two-point-five miles south of the cave, his knees buckled and he braced himself against a nearby tree. Despite the chill in the crisp mountain air, some kind of nebulous, muggy fume enveloped him, making him gasp for breath. This… wasn't right.

Eve. She knew he would come, and set her traps well beyond the cave. Cas could feel his power draining out of him, and nervously brandished his angel blade, the only means of protection he would have till they dispatched the mother.

"Cas?" A hand touched his shoulder, and he glanced around at Dean. His friend's face was hidden beneath goggles and a ski mask, but there was no mistaking the concern in his voice. "You okay?"

"I will be," Cas shakily assured him. "I just need a moment… Go on. Proceed with the mission. I'll only slow you down."

Dean hesitated, always reluctant to leave behind his allies, but his brother was in danger, and Sam came first. That's just the way it was—the way it should be.

"Watch your back," Dean told him, and then he followed the hunters from the Syndicate, who were swiftly fanning out and making their way north.

 **SPN**

In less than ten minutes, the fighting began. Dean could hear the distant gunfire, and he welcomed it. These woods—swarming with monsters—brought to mind his year in Purgatory, and he appreciated the sound of reinforcements.

Suddenly, a long cord came zipping through the trees and wrapped tightly around his wrist. Warm and sticky, it jerked him toward a strange, anthropomorphic amphibian—some kind of frog. Dean grimaced when he realized the cord was actually a tongue. Digging his feet into the ground, he strained against the monster's pull and reached for his demon-killing knife. It only took a second to sever the disgusting organ, and then he was racing towards the frog, eager to blow off a little steam.

 **SPN**

It was chaos on the mountain. Scores of hunters clashing with scores of monsters—the battle of a lifetime. Under different circumstances, Ethan would be thrilled. He was a killer at heart, and he jumped at every opportunity to butcher and destroy. Granted, humans were preferable, but monsters were more than adequate. He longed to join the melee, but right now, he had to focus.

Breaking away from his squad, he quickly climbed a tree and took cover in its foliage. Retrieving a smart phone from his tactical vest, he launched the Syndicate's tracking system, which he hacked ages ago. One could never be too careful.

Something must be done about the kidnapped Sam. He wasn't like Ethan's Sam. Ethan's Sam knew his place. After all, they grew up together, and Ethan took special care to train the little runt to respect and fear him, to stay out of his way and leave Dean alone. If only he could drown him. But Sam wasn't so easily extinguished. Ethan could never get away with it before his deal with Crowley, and then, much to his frustration, the deal came with a stipulation.

" _Dean's undying devotion for your depraved, mutilated soul. We'll even waive the time limit. You can have him till you're, say, ninety-nine. If you live that long. But you mustn't kill Sam. We have another claim on him."_

Lilith. That bitch wanted Sam for God knows what, and she was the only thing standing between Ethan and his lust for the kid's life. Was it any wonder he cursed her to death? With her out of the way, not only did he earn more of the Syndicate's admiration, he cleared his path to Sam. Finally! But the kid was ornery. He saw it coming, and he fled, disappearing without a trace. Damn spoilsport. Ethan would finish him off later. First, he had to kill the other one.

The kidnapped Sam was potentially dangerous. At least, his brother and his angel friend were dangerous. They might actually listen to him—they might actually _believe_ him—if he told the truth about Ethan's sadistic behavior. He had to be silenced as soon as possible. But not too quickly.

Ethan smiled as he tampered with the tracking system. It would take the Syndicate days to correct. In the meantime, the microchips were all basically useless. If hunters went missing during the fight with Eve's children, their technology could not help them. Ethan would not be AWOL. Just MIA. He could spend two or three hours with Sam, and no one would ever doubt him. He could hardly wait.

Better hurry. None of this meant anything if he didn't reach his target before any of the others.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	27. Chaos

_**Author's Note:**_ _So I'm very nervous about this chapter… I made some difficult, painful decisions, and all I can ask is for you to trust me and stick with me._ _Thank you!_

 **SPN**

John Winchester, chief of the Syndicate, had to admit, it felt good being in the field. His responsibilities made it difficult to get away from his desk, as much as he loved hunting. In the constant struggle between duty and desire, much like Alastair, John had to prioritize his duties. Thankfully, it proved easy to fall back into his old groove. Wielding a custom-built submachine gun with silver ammunition, he made quick work of the monsters in his path. (Not all monsters succumbed to bullets, but experience taught John that most of them still tried to avoid open fire.)

It was time. For the humans to rescue Sam, they would need someone distracting Eve—killing her in the process—and who else but John? He quickly surveyed his surroundings, and sure enough, PHS-03 still covered his position. He couldn't see their faces, but from the moment they left the warehouse, they made it a point to stay close to their chief. He trusted it was them.

Coming to a halt, he pulled off his helmet with the night-vision goggles, followed by his ski mask. No sense hiding his identity. "EVE!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "YOU KNOW WHO I AM! COME OUT AND FACE ME!"

 **SPN**

When Dean heard the chief calling out to Eve, he knew he should direct his attention toward the cave. Finding Sam was all that mattered. But he was currently combating a Jefferson Starship (a shapeshifting hybrid—part vampire, part wraith), and he couldn't brush off his memories of Purgatory. The woods, the cold night air, the endless horde of monsters…

The hybrid shoved Dean's back up against a tree. He grunted, straining to keep it at arm's length while it struggled to reach his neck, snapping its fangs. Each hungry chomp, along with the smell of blood on its breath, filled Dean with horror, and despite everything, he lost it, flashing back to the realm of nightmares. He was still trapped there… He was sure of it.

Mustering his strength, he wrestled the hybrid to the ground, unsheathed his machete, and hacked off its head. No time to stop. No time to think. Monsters in Purgatory were like hydras. Strike one down, and more appeared. He had to stay on guard. He had to keep fighting. If he paused, even to catch his breath, they would kill him, and he refused to die. Not here, not like this. He would make it back to his family—his little brother—even if it meant slaughtering every last God-forsaken thing in these woods. He wouldn't stop. He would never stop.

 **SPN**

The bitch came prowling through the trees like a woman in white, smiling at John with brazen civility. "I was hoping to meet you, sir."

"You threatened my boy," he growled, aiming his gun, despite the weapon's impotence. For this to work, he couldn't show his hand. "You're always on about mothers defending their young. Well, so do fathers."

She acknowledged him with a slight nod. "Then we understand each other. Your compound is an affront to nature. Offensive and deplorable. As long as you continue to harass my children, I will continue to harass yours."

 **SPN**

With Eve's monsters holding the Syndicate squads at bay, it didn't take long for Castiel to catch up. His head was swimming, and his feet were bogged down, but he would never quit—not when the brothers were depending on him. He wasn't entirely sure how he would rescue Sam. His powers were depleted and the cave was certainly a trap. But he didn't care. He had sensed Sam's anguish, and it chilled him to the bone.

Ironically, with the hunters all dressed in black, covering their faces to blend in with the night, Castiel was the least conspicuous in his normal clothes. Perhaps mistaking him for one of their own, the monsters blatantly ignored him, allowing him free passage through the woods. Unless, of course, Eve shared his identity with each of them through their telepathic link, warning them not to hurt the angel so she could "adopt" him. That was always a possibility. Cas shuddered.

He could see the mouth of the cave directly above him, leading into the side of the mountain. Only God knew if it was a natural formation, or the mother's burrow. Sam was in there, and he was terrified. Trap or no trap, Cas had to get him out.

With all the gunfire in the distance, he didn't give much thought to the sudden volley thundering behind him—until he registered the excruciating pain. His back was pelted with dozens of silver rounds, and this time, with Eve's oppressive hold on him, he could not tolerate the deadly barrage.

Shock coursed through his body. The next thing he knew, he was tumbling forward, landing face-first on the piney forest floor. His heartbeat slowed, and his mind went blank. What happened? Where was he? Sam…?

Something kicked him, rolling him from his stomach onto his back. The white-hot agony was blinding, but he couldn't scream. His lungs were punctured.

Through the fog, he caught glimpses of a hunter… Black helmet, black goggles, black mask… Did a hunter shoot him?

Whoever he was, he reached down to pluck the angel blade from Cas' hand.

So cold…

Cas shook his head… feeling dizzy… faint…

The blade came crashing down, descending straight through his gut. He lurched, gasping, blood in his mouth.

Wha—?

Dean…

Darkness washed over him, and he succumbed to its silent embrace.

 **SPN**

"You should not have come," Eve remarked, lifting her chin while taking a deep breath, smelling the air. She sighed, clucking her tongue in disapproval. "No phoenix ash? Honestly, what did you hope to accomplish, John?"

He stood his ground, wary but resolute. "Thought I'd ask nicely for the boy in that den of yours."

She raised an eyebrow. "Why? You don't have a claim on him—not really. He's not even from this world." Her expression darkened, twisting into contempt. "But then, you already knew that, didn't you? After all, that's why he was dragged here in the first place. For your lackeys to study, torture, and throw away. You humans think you're so much better than us, but you have so little regard for life."

John scowled. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know exactly what I'm talking about." Eve couldn't hide her hatred for the chief. "I know all about your Syndicate. I know all about your _policies_. You protect the prosperous and abandon the poor. You value money, not people. You're not a father. You're nothing but an arrogant, savage animal."

 **SPN**

Ethan had no idea whether or not he actually killed the angel. It certainly looked dead, but it didn't give off any 'fireworks,' as he liked to call them. No flashes of light or peals of thunder. Nothing to suggest the destruction of a supernatural entity—it might as well have been human. But he didn't have time to worry about that. It would look very bad and raise a lot of questions if someone witnessed a hunter attacking an angel. Besides, he was in a hurry to collect Sam.

Leaving the blade lodged in the body, Ethan hiked the rest of the way up to the cave. The main chamber was damp and cold—even through all his layers. If the kid was still in his pajamas from the compound, he might have frostbite. Wouldn't that be fun? Ethan smirked, reloading his submachine gun.

A steep tunnel led from the main chamber down toward the bowels of the mountain. As he made his descent, he became aware of a soft, strange rustling. Something about it thrilled him. He knew it wasn't natural, and if he had to guess, it had something to do with Sam's imprisonment. He couldn't wait to see how Eve was containing the little runt. She didn't seem the type to use conventional restraints, and the possibilities were exciting.

Eventually, the tunnel came to a large secondary chamber lit by four Tiki torches. The walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with thousands of protruding arms and hands, which were all rubbing up against each other, twisting, writhing, and grasping, mostly at nothing. Some, however, enjoyed custody of Sam, and the sight made Ethan drool. The sly bastards were practically molesting the kid, hugging him, caressing him, fondling him… They had their fingers in his hair, a palm over his mouth, and several hands under his clothes. It was delicious, and if Ethan didn't want Sam for himself, he'd be content to stand back and watch. He was obviously uncomfortable. Ethan could hear his muffled cries from across the room. What a treat!

But then, all those hands caught wind of their new guest. The didn't have eyes or ears, but somehow, they sensed his presence, and they stretched their arms out to investigate. Unfazed, Ethan aimed his gun and held the trigger to unleash 900 rounds per minute. He sprayed bullets in every direction, satisfied to see appendages blown off and blood gushing everywhere. The monsters were nothing more than flesh and bone, as fragile as a human. They must not have been familiar with pain, for they backpedaled in a wild frenzy, retracting all the way into the walls. Those still clinging to Sam were more hesitant, reluctant to release their treasure—not that he could blame them—but their grips weakened enough for the kid to tear himself free. He stumbled to his knees, but didn't waste any time in his scramble for the exit. Ethan covered him, shooting any hand that dared give chase. Sam didn't belong in their possession. He was Ethan's chew toy.

As he hobbled into the tunnel, his legs gave out, and he landed back on his knees. So far, he was too distracted to focus on anything but his freedom, and hopefully, that would make him cooperative. He couldn't possibly recognize Ethan—not with the ski mask and night-vision goggles—so he had no reason to resist.

Except, the moment he raised those big, bright eyes of his, the moment he perceived the Syndicate uniform, he shrank back in alarm. Of course. The Syndicate meant the compound. He was afraid his 'savior' would drag him back to Campbell and Dr. Robert. Figures.

Oh well.

Mustering up years of aggression, Ethan bore down on the little runt and brutally knocked him out.

 **SPN**

"Are we gonna talk all night or what?" John growled, refusing to let Eve's words get to him. He wasn't born into his wealth, and he wasn't always in favor of the Syndicate. Mary… She changed everything, and when she died… But he couldn't deal with that right now—he was on a hunt.

Eve watched him through narrowed eyes with a grim expression on her virgin face. For the mother of all monsters, she looked so young. "I can't decide whether to adopt you or kill you. I promised to treat every orphan with mercy and compassion, but you're a special case. The leader of my enemies. I should make you beg for my forgiveness."

"Then what are you waiting for?" John asked, bracing himself. Eve charged at him with supernatural speed. She whacked the gun from his hands and seized his throat, heedless of any potential danger. After all, she smelled no phoenix ash. What could possibly hurt her?

This was it!

John reached around his back for the bone tucked securely in his belt.

" _Fair warning," Dean told him as they forged the weapon. "This thing packs a mean punch. The moment you strike, you drop everything and run. Don't wait around to see if it works. You run like your life depends on it. Otherwise, you'll get dragged with Eve into Purgatory."_

" _How will we know if she's really dead?"_

" _I'll know," the angel replied. "Don't worry about that."_

" _If you do get dragged into Purgatory," Dean continued. "There is a way out—a portal specifically for humans. But there's no guarantee you'll find it, so when you strike, you better haul ass and get the hell out of there."_

John pulled the bone free, whipped his arm around, and slammed the sharp tip straight through Eve's chest. She jerked, eyes widening, jaw dropping.

Moving quickly, he broke her hold on his neck and shuffled away. He glanced around for PHS-03. "GO! GO! GO! GO!"

They fled north, racing through the trees, away from the eerie sound of a beating drum.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

It was growing faster and faster, louder and louder.

John pushed himself forward, accelerating as much as possible.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!

A wave of energy exploded behind him.

Still, he ran, unable to look back.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	28. Alone At Last

**SPN**

Emerging from the cave with Sam's limp body dangling from his shoulders in a fireman's carry, Ethan paused to survey his surroundings. Much to his relief, the coast was clear. Despite the massive explosion he heard from the tunnel, which may have signified the mother's death, the battle was still raging. Hunters were still preoccupied with countless monsters, and no one would notice if Ethan took off into the wilderness with Sam in tow. Awesome.

He made a break for it, heading away from the gunfire. The terrain was steep, and with the extra weight, it was slow going, but he was determined. He'd been waiting for so long to have Sam back in his control, and with a duplicate, he didn't have to restrain himself. He could let himself go. The anticipation was agonizing. His heart fluttered, and he ached with desire. It gave him the stamina to fly through the woods like a bat out of hell.

He didn't stop for two miles. By then, he was drenched in sweat, despite the chill in the air. Better pace himself. Finding a relatively flat area, he dropped Sam to the ground and parked himself on a large rock to catch his breath. While removing his helmet, the goggles, and the ski mask, he smiled down at his sleeping victim. So helpless… So vulnerable… So worth the wait.

He couldn't help himself—had to get started. He inched towards the boy, kneeling down next to him and rolling him onto his back. His head flopped to the side, hair falling in his face. Ethan brushed the stray strands behind his ear, gently traced his jawline, and stroked his bottom lip… He couldn't deny the kid had a lovely mouth. He bent down and kissed it, thrusting in with his tongue, savoring his soft, yielding reception. He knew it wouldn't last.

A moment later, he pulled back. He shouldn't be wasting time. Eventually, Sam would regain consciousness, and first, he had to be… prepped. Shivering with excitement, Ethan fished two extra-large bandanas from his cargo pants. He rumpled one up into a thick wad and crammed it all the way into Sam's mouth. Then, he folded the other into a neat strip and covered Sam's lips, securing it as tightly as possible behind the back of his head. Perfect.

He rolled Sam onto his stomach and tugged his arms behind his back. Step one, fasten his wrists with a pair of handcuffs, nice and snug, so the shackles dig into the skin. Step two, rope. He had a long nylon bundle wrapped around his waist, hidden beneath his clothes. It took a minute to unwind, and as he worked, Ethan considered all the different ways he could truss up the kid.

He began with the elbows. Straddling his victim, Ethan leaned down and wrapped a length of rope around Sam's arms, both above and below the joints, pulling viciously to yank the elbows together. Sam woke with a start, howling in pain. Ethan's ministrations were rotating his shoulders too far back, possibly tearing muscles, and it had to hurt. A lot.

Good.

After binding several knots, Ethan cut off the extra rope with a combat knife. He rolled Sam around and relished the look of fear on his face. "Hey, there, pretty boy. Long time, no see." Sam's yells were sufficiently muffled by his gag. He tried squirming away, but Ethan dropped his full weight on his waist, pinning him down. "You tried to run from me." His hands slithered up under his shirt, gently grazing his stomach. Sam bucked desperately, kicking his legs at nothing. "But I forgive you. It was a joy to find you in the hands of… a thousand hands. What did that feel like?" He pulled his own hands out from under Sam's shirt. "Did it feel anything like this?" He pushed his palms down on Sam's stomach, then crawled his way up Sam's chest to his face, which he stroked affectionately. Sam moaned, twisting his head away in agitation. Ethan smirked. He was gonna be so much fun to play with.

Reaching for the extra rope, he turned to focus on Sam's legs. "Hold still, pretty boy." He slid the rope under Sam's thighs, wrapped it around three times, and tied it off. Then, with the remaining length, he bound Sam's ankles. Naturally, the kid struggled the whole time, but he never really stood a chance.

Once Ethan was satisfied with his work, he stood up and retrieved his phone. While Sam tested his restraints, Ethan pulled up a map on the screen. There! Just a few miles away. They could make it. He glanced down at Sam and winked provocatively. "How would you like to spend the last few moments of your life at a gorgeous lakefront? I hear the water's cold this time of year."

Sam's eyes widened, and Ethan grinned.

 **SPN**

Endless silence. Floating in darkness. Only somewhat aware that something had been lost. Not cold. Not hot. Just calm suspension.

Nothing. It wasn't painful. It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't anything.

At least, not at first.

Gradually, a glimmer of light. Where was it coming from? So small, but pure.

He reached for it.

He. Who was he? What happened?

The light was in him. Gentle. White. Refreshing. He breathed in. And breathed out. Alive.

It was starting to sing. So clear. So divine. The word.

Word of God.

Inside him.

He could feel it now. The comforting weight of an ancient tablet, buried deep where no one would ever find it. He had to keep it safe, had to protect it.

But here it was, protecting him.

The etchings on the stone surface were radiant, shining with celestial light, filling him to the brim, spreading outward from his core to his fingertips.

Warmth.

Hope.

It carried him out of the dark.

He opened his eyes.

And he felt…

Agony.

 **SPN**

Sam was shouting—at least, trying to shout through the obstruction in his mouth. It was suffocating, and no one would be able to hear him—aside from Ethan. The son of a bitch had squeezed his arms under Sam's, sandwiching them between Sam's elbows and his back, so they were linked together. He hauled Sam off the ground and was now dragging him like a rag doll through the woods. The pain was excruciating—especially in his shoulders.

"Keep squirming, pretty boy," Ethan teased, despite the exertion in his voice. He might be strong, but even he had difficulty toting a hundred and seventy-two extra pounds through the rough terrain. Their progress was slow… but it was still progress. "I'm always up for a challenge."

Sam clenched his eyes shut, panting heavily. _Cas,_ he prayed. _I need help! Ethan's gonna kill me! We're heading to some lake! CAS!_

No answer.

"By the way," Ethan said, as if reading his mind. "I ran into that angel friend of yours. Damn thing's all bark and no bite. He went down easy."

 _What? Cas!?_

"I stabbed him with his own silver blade," he bragged conspiratorially.

 _No…_

Sam thrashed with everything he had, forcing Ethan to stop and adjust his grip. Then, they were on their way again.

"How many other hunters do you think have bagged an angel? They're not very common, are they? Of course, I can't tell anyone—it wouldn't go over well—but that doesn't diminish my accomplishment." He laughed.

Sam whimpered, tears filling his eyes. Cas couldn't… He couldn't…

 _CAS!_

 **SPN**

It was almost dawn when the army of monsters made their retreat, scattering in different directions, with no mother for guidance. Many of the hunters went after them, the taste of victory spurring them on. Dean, however, didn't share their excitement. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He could feel it in his gut.

Leaning against a tree, he pulled off the helmet, the goggles, and the mask. It was still dark in the woods, making it difficult to see clearly, but after such a long battle, it was a relief to feel the crisp mountain air on his face. He took a moment to catch his breath, glancing around uncertainly. When they killed Eve back in his reality, Castiel immediately regained his abilities, and went straight into smite-mode. So why didn't that happen this time? Dean heard the explosion. That meant Eve was dead, right? So where was Castiel's divine wrath?

He wearily retrieved a smart phone from his tactical vest—the Syndicate was nothing if not technological—and launched a map with the coordinates to the cave already entered. It didn't look far. Confirming the direction with a compass, he began a lonely hike. He could still hear countless hunters in the distance. Occasionally, he even glimpsed them through the trees. But they were strangers, and their presence meant nothing. He longed for his brother, and cursed himself for letting his memories overwhelm him. He honestly thought he was in Purgatory. What the hell? True, every now and then, a flashback was perfectly normal, but Dean wasn't. He couldn't afford to be "normal." Not when Sam was in danger.

Maybe someone else managed to save him… Gwen or Prince Charming? Maybe he was already out of the cave, waiting for Dean to catch up.

God, he better be okay.

 **SPN**

As much as it pained him to admit, Ethan was tired. They were almost to the lake, but damn, it was taking longer than he anticipated. The little runt wouldn't stop fighting, and to be honest, he wasn't as "little" as Ethan liked to imagine him. They weren't kids anymore, and naturally, the miserable wretch had the audacity to grow taller than his brother. What a nuisance!

They could use a short break. Ethan dropped his victim on the ground, kicking him in the stomach for good measure. While Sam curled up in a tight ball, coughing through his gag, Ethan paced around him in a small circle, shaking the tension from his arms, rolling his shoulders, catching his breath. They wouldn't have much time at the lake. The Syndicate would be searching for them, and while Sam deserved to suffer, Ethan had to be efficient. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to enjoy the body before disposing of it—and the bodies were half the fun.

Very well. When they reached the lake, they would jump straight into the water to maximize their time together. But for the moment, since they were taking a break anyway… Ethan smiled, opening his mouth to harass the kid, when suddenly, without the slightest bit of warning, Sam kicked his legs out, striking his captor in the knee.

Ethan tripped, stumbling forward. Sam kicked him again, and he slipped on patch of loose detritus—leaves, pine needles, acorns. The next thing he knew, he was rolling down the mountain.

Son of a—!

He crashed into a tree, nearly banging his head on a protruding root. Pain flared through his body, and he grimaced, scowling furiously. "You little bitch!" It took some effort, but he clambered to his feet and glared up at Sam with burning hatred. Even from a distance, he could see his victim wriggling around, desperate to worm his way out of his restraints. Well, that was never going to happen.

Clenching his fists, Ethan stormed up the mountain, practically seeing red—and Sam, like a proper victim, watched him come, helpless and horrified. A single act of self-preservation would cost him dearly, and he knew it.

"Any idea what the punishment is for defiance?" Having crossed the distance between them, Ethan kicked Sam hard in the stomach. He doubled over, grunting through his gag. Ethan sat down next to him and wrestled him onto his back. Then, he grabbed Sam's jaw and leaned in close. "That was your last kick, pretty boy. I'm gonna make sure of it."

After a brutal slap to the face, Ethan turned and straddled Sam's legs. He slid down to reach his bare feet, and he fingered his little toe.

Snap.

Sam howled, writhing in agony.

"We're just getting started," Ethan grumbled, fingering the next toe in line. Sam bucked his legs in a desperate attempt to dislodge him, but he relentlessly held on.

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

 **SPN**

He was almost to the cave when he heard a familiar voice calling out to him.

"Dean…"

Cas.

Dean whipped his head around, heart skipping a beat when he caught sight of his friend. The angel was lying on the ground, soaked in his own blood, obviously hurt, with his blade lodged in his stomach.

"CAS!"

 _No! No! No! No!_

He scrambled to the angel's side, falling to the ground next to him. "You'll be okay! You'll be okay, right!?"

There was blood dripping from his mouth. Not a good sign!

Cas moaned, clenching his eyes shut. "I'll be okay… I just… need to remove the blade…" He strained his arms, struggling in vain to lift them.

Dean didn't hesitate. With Eve dead, Cas should have his mojo back—he should be able to heal himself—as long as he wasn't hampered by angelic weapons. He reached for the blade, yanked it out, and dropped it on the ground. Cas grunted, wrenching his face in pain.

"Come on, man," Dean muttered, his heart hammering in his throat. "You can't do this to me."

"Place… my hand… on the injury…"

Dean anxiously obeyed.

A white light flashed from inside his gut, pouring out of the lesion with the sound of soft, resonating chimes. Moments later, the wound disappeared, and Cas sighed in relief.

Dean frowned. That was… different, somehow. The hell did he just witness?

Not that it mattered.

"Are you okay?"

Cas met his gaze, unable to keep from shaking. "I'm… better… but not at full strength… That… nearly killed me…" Suddenly, his eyes widened. "Dean!" He grabbed his wrist, clutching it tightly. "Your brother!"

 _Sammy…_

"He needs help!" the angel gasped. "He's hurt, and he's praying to me! It's… It's Ethan… Ethan's taking him to a lake. He's gonna drown him!"

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	29. Beneath the Surface

_**Author's Note:**_ _I never thought I would have 200-plus reviews. Thank you all so much for your wonderful support! I wouldn't be doing this without you._

 **SPN**

"It's… It's Ethan… Ethan's taking him to a lake. He's gonna drown him!"

Dean Winchester, heir of the Syndicate, could not believe the words pouring from the angel's mouth. He and Gwen were just leaving the cave, where they'd discovered a monstrous entity like nothing they'd ever seen before, but no sign of Sam, when they noticed the two visitors huddling on the ground a few yards down the slope. Castiel was obviously hurt, but as they rushed to offer their assistance, they were just in time to hear him accuse Ethan of kidnapping and premeditating murder.

It had to be a mistake. Ethan would never… Ethan loved Sam. They were practically brothers. He would never hurt the kid. They were family.

"Wait!" Gwen exclaimed, frantically removing her goggles and ski mask. Dean followed her example—it was already dawn, and light was starting to infiltrate the forest canopy. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Dean's counterpart was still kneeling beside his friend, but his shoulders were tense, and his fury was palpable. "Ethan? As in, the hunter who killed Lilith?"

The angel nodded. "I believe so… Yes…"

"No!" Dean objected while his counterpart pulled up a map on his phone. "That's not possible! I _know_ Ethan! Do you hear me? He's not capable…"

His counterpart ignored him. "Okay, here we go. Closest lake is five miles away." He glanced from the phone to the angel. "Just five miles, Cas. You think you can make it?"

The angel grimaced, attempting to sit up, and Gwen—always eager to help—hastened to his side, offering him support. He groaned, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm still too depleted. You'll have to make a run for it."

He cursed under his breath. "Son of a… Five miles, Cas! That's a thirty minute run!"

"Then hurry!"

At the angel's command, Dean's counterpart leapt to his feet and tore off through the trees. Dean watched him go in shock. How could they suspect Ethan? It didn't make any sense! Ethan was…

Ethan was in danger! If Dean's counterpart found him… No. Ethan was Dean's best friend. He wouldn't let anything happen to him. He would give his life for him.

"Dean, wait!" he called after his counterpart, breaking into a run. He had to stop him! Had to stop him! Had to stop him!

 **SPN**

Almost there. Almost there. Ethan could make out the water shimmering in the sunlight; he could hear it splashing on the rocks. Just a few more yards, and they could rest. Needless to say, they were both exhausted—Ethan from dragging Sam, and Sam from trying to escape. They always tried to escape. His victims. He couldn't blame them for that. They knew their lives were just about over, and it was very emotional for them. Very stressful. He always tried to give them a few minutes to clear their heads, to come to terms with their fates. They never did, but at least he made the offer.

Sam, though… Sam was different. Stubborn. Defiant. Even with ten broken toes, he continued to fight, writhing against his captor like a squirming puppy. Damn, he was frustrating. He didn't deserve the slightest bit of consideration. If only they could spend the whole morning together. Ethan longed to hurt him in every possible way. He despised rushing. But it was all for the best. He could satisfy his immediate cravings, and then, when this whole thing blew over, he could take his time with the other Sam. _His_ Sam.

Finally, they emerged from the treeline and found themselves on the edge of a clear blue lake. Exquisite! A precious jewel set in the rugged wilderness! Ethan was thrilled to see not a sandy beach, but a rocky shoreline with gravel everywhere, and even a few boulders jutting out of the water. Nice! He couldn't have asked for a better location.

Of course, Sam didn't share his enthusiasm. When he glimpsed the lake, he panicked, thrashing around with fresh urgency. His muffled cries were so sweet to hear. Ethan laughed, heaving him forward and tossing him ankle-deep into the ice-cold water. He reflexively jerked onto his back, splashing water all over himself, to keep Ethan in his line of sight. "Mph-mff-mmm-pppfff!" He was already shivering, but with his legs tied and his feet severely damaged, he wasn't going anywhere.

Ethan towered over him, basking in his fear. "Listen to me, pretty boy. Your life's in my hands. We don't have much time, so I want you to calm down and appreciate every moment I give you." He entered the water. Sam shied away, but didn't have anywhere to go—he certainly didn't want to squirm deeper into the lake. Ethan crouched down and mounted his legs. Sam shook his head, objecting helplessly as Ethan stretched out on top of him, lying down on his chest. Water splashed over them—too shallow to submerge them, but deep enough to drench them. So cold. So refreshing. Ethan grabbed Sam's jaw and tilted his head back, getting his hair as wet as possible.

"MPHHFFF!"

"Mmmm…" Ethan slid up to press his cheek against Sam's face, moaning in his ear. "I've waited so long for this, pretty boy. You have no idea…"

 **SPN**

Dean raced through the trees as quickly as he could, desperate to save his brother. This wasn't happening. Ethan!? He actually _liked_ Ethan! The son of a bitch killed Lilith and saved his world from the apocalypse. Dean _admired_ him. Damn it! Now the manipulative bastard was alone with Sam, and Dean could only pray that he would reach them in time.

It made sense. Obviously, someone was abusing the Sam from this reality, and if it wasn't a Campbell or a Winchester, who else could get away with it? Prince Charming's best friend. Dean was gonna kill him! Whether or not he reached them in time, Dean was gonna break every bone in Ethan's body!

 **SPN**

 _Cas! Please don't be dead! Cas, I need your help!_

Sam couldn't stop praying as he languished under Ethan's body weight. The sick bastard was crushing him, the water was freezing, and it felt like they'd been lying there for hours. He didn't want to die, so he wasn't in a hurry for Ethan to get up, but God, the water was so, so cold. And he was in so much pain. He just wanted it to stop.

"All right, pretty boy," Ethan whispered in his ear. "Let's do this." He leaned back and hauled Sam up by the front of his T-shirt. Water splashed and trickled everywhere as they trudged deeper into the lake. Much to Sam's horror, he couldn't fight—his body was shaking too fiercely—he couldn't function.

 _No! CAS!_

Ethan brought him over to a large boulder that was protruding from the surface. He shoved him down on top of it, so he was staring over the edge at his own reflection. Crap!

"Don't worry, Sam," Ethan teased, entwining his fingers in his hair. "You're not gonna drown. Not right away. I want to draw this moment out…"

Sam frantically pulled back, but Ethan was ready for a fight and pushed down forcefully, dunking Sam's head under the water. He held his breath and began twisting his body, trying to roll over, but Ethan countered by slipping his free hand under Sam's arms, and planting it firmly on the back of his pelvis—right where he had his bone marrow biopsy. The pain was paralyzing, and Sam howled despite himself. Water filled his nose—it was already saturating his gag—creeping toward his throat.

Suddenly, Ethan yanked his head up. Pain flared through his scalp. Water splashed everywhere. Sam found himself staring at the sun, and he clenched his eyes shut. He could breathe! Thank God, he could breathe!

But at the same time, his gag was still wet, dripping water down his chin, and down his throat. His chest tightened, and he writhed against his captor, but again, Ethan's hand pressed roughly on his pelvis, sending shock waves through his body. He was going to die. He was actually going to die!

"Savor what's left of your life, Sammy," Ethan whispered in his ear. "Treasure it with me." Laughing, he plunged Sam's head back into the icy depths.

 **SPN**

He had spent a year in Purgatory, on the run. Always on the run—cross country, just like this. There were days when he ran, not five miles, but ten—fifteen—sometimes a whole marathon. All for the sake of survival. But this time, it wasn't his life on the line. It was Sam's. He could do this. He _would_ do this.

 _Hang on, Sammy! I'm coming!_

 **SPN**

The little runt was wearing out. Ethan had to give him longer reprieves to keep him alive, especially with the wet gag hindering his recovery. He could breathe through his nose, but with the water in his mouth, dribbling down his throat, he was constantly choking and coughing—drowning, but not drowning. It had to be torture for him, and Ethan loved it. He could do this all friggin' day—if Sammy was up for it. His strength was fading. He could hardly fight anymore.

"Don't quit on me just yet, pretty boy. I'm still having fun."

 **SPN**

 _Come on, Dean! You can go faster than this! Hurry!_

He barreled past the treeline and perceived two figures hunched over a large rock, waist-deep in a shimmering blue lake. One figure was holding the other's head under the water, and much to Dean's horror, the victim was barely moving.

"SAM!"

Brandishing his knife, Dean threw himself into the water. Immediately, the criminal whipped his head around, and sure enough, it was Prince Charming's friend. Ethan. His eyes widened and he turned to defend himself—dropping Sam in the process. When Dean closed in on them, he feinted low, then slashed high, but Ethan dove out of the way, thankfully putting some distance between himself and Sam. As Dean turned to follow the bastard, he heard his brother's head breaking the surface, splashing water everywhere. By some miracle, he was alive!

Squaring off against Ethan, Dean lunged forward, aiming for his throat. This time, Ethan blocked and punched Dean in the face. His head whipped backwards, and Ethan tackled him, using his weight to submerge him. But Dean was still gripping his knife, and he sliced the blade through Ethan's leg. The bastard recoiled, and Dean—holding his breath—swam after him. Maybe he could stab him in the nuts.

Suddenly, two hands gripped the back of his tactical vest and yanked him above of the water. Who—? He turned, lashing out instinctively, but his assailant saw it coming and blocked.

"Dean, no!" It was Prince Charming. "I can't let you hurt him!"

Under different circumstances, Dean might have given his twin the benefit of the doubt, but he was pissed, and he wasn't thinking clearly. He couldn't even phrase a witty retort. Instead, he kicked Prince Charming away from him and went back after Ethan, who was swimming out deeper into the lake.

"Dean, STOP!" his twin yelled after him. "It's not what you think!"

The ground fell out from under Dean's feet, and he began to swim in earnest. Damn, it was cold! What if Sam had hypothermia? Son of a bitch!

"DEAN!"

He kept going, pushing himself faster and faster. He never thought he'd be grateful for a year in Purgatory, but he was in the best shape of his life, and he was gaining on Ethan. Holding his breath, he dove back under the surface and raced forward. When he caught up, he grabbed Ethan's ankle and dragged him under. He aimed the knife at his bloody leg, but Ethan recovered quickly, grabbing Dean's wrist and kicking out with his other foot. Dean absorbed the blow, straining against Ethan's hold. They grappled against each other, spinning through the water, bubbles gushing everywhere. Then, they were ascending upwards, and their heads breached the surface.

Dean gasped for breath while Ethan kicked him again. He kicked back, snarling angrily. Then, he managed to throw himself on top of the bastard and shoved his head back under the water. Ethan squirmed, but Dean's free hand managed to snatch his hair, holding him still so he could knee him in the face. No one got away with hurting his brother. No one.

"DEAN!"

This time, it wasn't Prince Charming's voice crying out to him.

It was Sam's.

Dean whipped his head around. Much to his surprise—and alarm—the kid was in the shallow end of the lake, on his knees, with Prince Charming holding a large knife to his throat. Seriously!? What the hell!?

"LET HIM GO!" Prince Charming shouted, barely containing his fury. "OR YOUR BROTHER DIES!"

Son of a bitch!

Dean released Ethan, who immediately swam away from him. Still, Prince Charming held Sam hostage, more than willing to go through with his threat. Dean knew that look on his face—he wasn't bluffing. No wonder the other Sam fled. He must have known his brother would choose Ethan over him.

When the bastard came up for air, several yards to the left, he glanced frantically from Dean over to Sam and Prince Charming.

His friend jerked his head towards the rocky shore. "Ethan, get out of here! GO! NOW!"

In the distant treeline, Dean caught sight of movement. Gwen. She arrived on the scene, took stock of the situation, and didn't hesitate—didn't even blink. She aimed her submachine gun, fired a single round, and struck Ethan straight in the head. His body lurched backwards, plummeting beneath the surface.

 **SPN**

It was like a fog lifting. As Ethan's body sank to the bottom of the lake, Dean's head began to clear, and as it cleared, his blood ran cold.

He remembered. Oh God, he remembered. The way Ethan looked at Sam… the way he treated Sam… the way he… the way he… And Dean did nothing! He just stood by and allowed it to happen, over and over and over again! How could he…? How…?

 _Sammy!_

Dean dropped his knife. He stumbled backwards. He turned… doubled over… collapsed… and emptied his stomach.

 **SPN**

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	30. Hope

**SPN**

Sam couldn't move. Was it… was it really over?

Kneeling in the shallow end of the lake, he shivered as icy droplets rolled down his face. He had lost feeling in his feet, which didn't bode well, despite the relief. His arms were also numb, but his shoulders were painfully dislocated, and his back was in agony. He'd been through worse… He tried telling himself that, but really, it wasn't the time for memories of Lucifer—he didn't need anymore trauma.

Dean reached him first, followed closely by Gwen. While Dean anxiously took Sam's face in his hands, Gwen brandished her combat knife and began severing the rope around his arms.

"Sammy!?"

Dean held his head up, checking his eyes for responsiveness. Sam tried to answer, but his teeth were chattering. The rope fell, releasing his shoulders, but his wrists were still tightly cuffed.

"We need to get him out of the water," Gwen remarked, calmly but firmly. Dean circled around Sam and reached under his arms, hoisting him up. Gwen grabbed his legs and together, they carried him across the shoreline into the safety of the trees. Meanwhile, Dean's counterpart remained on the rocks, where he continued retching.

"Dean…" Sam whimpered as they eased him on a blanket of fallen leaves and pine needles.

"I'm right here, Sammy," his brother replied, catching a set of lock picks from Gwen. "You're gonna be okay." He began working on the cuffs while Gwen severed the ropes around his legs.

"Oh, God…" she muttered when she freed his ankles. "His feet…"

Sam and Dean both glanced down. His feet were blue and purple, and his toes were brutally misshapen.

"What the hell did he do to you!?" Dean's voice was a peculiar blend of anger, fear, and empathy. He didn't wait for an answer, but gazed up at the sky. "CASTIEL, YOU BETTER GET YOUR ASS HERE RIGHT NOW!"

Sam felt tears in his eyes. "He's… he's… dead… Ethan…"

"Ethan?" Dean quickly finished unlocking the cuffs. "It was Ethan who stabbed Cas?"

Sam frowned. He didn't understand… Why was Dean praying to Cas when he knew Cas had been killed? "Ethan… stabbed him…"

Dean growled. "That son of a bitch." He pulled Sam into his arms, and Sam fell against him, utterly exhausted. "It's okay, kiddo. He stabbed him, but didn't kill him. Cas survived."

As if on cue, the angel appeared with a flutter of his wings. His face was pale, his clothes were soaked in blood, and he was breathing heavily, leaning against a tree for support. But he was alive. He took one look at Sam and stumbled forward, landing awkwardly on his knees. He reached out a hand, stretching his fingers to Sam's face. Warmth instantly engulfed him, healing his bruised and battered body, setting his bones, mending his back… even drying his clothes!

But it did not cure his illness. Sam felt the familiar congestion in his throat, and before he could brace himself, he began to cough.

 **SPN**

Gwen's heart was aching, but she couldn't let it consume her. Not yet. Sam, Dean, and Castiel were huddled together on the ground. Dean was struggling to support his brother, who was coughing so violently, he was practically convulsing—and by flying here, by healing the poor kid, Castiel had used up all his strength, which made him weaker than ever. Someone had to help them, and it was the least Gwen could do.

Retrieving her phone from her tactical vest, she dialed the chief's number, praying he would answer. As far as they could tell, Eve was dead—mission accomplished—but it was still too soon to count the cost. How many people lost their lives? Did the weapon drag anyone into Purgatory? Was it worth it?

Was it worth the Syndicate's humanity? Eve might be dead… but only because two strangers with the necessary intelligence came looking for their loved one, who had been taken against his will, and tortured… It wasn't right, and Gwen despised herself for having anything to do with it.

The call connected, and the chief spoke in a weary voice. "Gwen?"

"Castiel is hurt," she grimly replied. "He won't be able to fly us out of here. We need choppers. And we need them now."

 **SPN**

Dean Winchester, heir of the Syndicate, sat on the rocks, staring out at the lake with his hand covering his mouth in self-loathing. He didn't understand… How was Ethan able to manipulate him so effectively? A spell? A… a curse? It didn't matter. He could never use Ethan's treachery as an excuse for his own failures. He wasn't strong enough to resist. He wasn't strong enough to save his brother. How could he ever look Sam in the eyes again? How could he ever forgive himself?

There were footsteps crunching in the gravel behind him, warning him of his counterpart's approach. He stood, knees shaking, and turned to face a better version of himself—and that Dean was understandably pissed. "I am so, so sorry."

His counterpart clenched his jaw, shook his head, and pulled back his arm. He slammed his fist in Dean's face, hooking him with savage ferocity. He careened to the ground, scraping his hands and knees—welcoming the pain.

 **SPN**

Dean couldn't contain himself; he was so angry. He glared down at his twin, grappling with the temptation to beat him senseless. How _dare_ he hold a knife to his brother's throat? "You know, Sam—your Sam—convinced me he wasn't scared of you. He said he couldn't trust you, but he wasn't scared of you. You know what I think? I think he should've been _terrified_ of you."

Prince Charming glanced up at him with anguish in his green eyes. "Ethan had me in some kind of thrall…"

Dean scowled. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

On some deep, subconscious level, he knew it wasn't fair to hold the supernatural against his twin. After all, he nearly killed Sam himself when a spectre whammied him not too long ago. It wasn't Prince Charming's fault. It was Ethan's. But Ethan was dead, and Dean was a wreck. He had to vent some of his aggression, or he'd go crazy.

"DEAN!" his brother shouted from the trees.

Both versions glanced around to witness dozens of hunters coming out of the woodwork. Gwen was running up to meet them while Sam cowered next to Castiel. The angel was slowly improving, able to sit up, but still too weak to fly Sam to safety, and Dean couldn't blame the kid for being scared. He saw the photos in the file from the compound. He understood what Sam had suffered at the hands of the Syndicate. Cursing, he scurried towards them with Prince Charming close on his heels.

Thankfully, John was in the midst of the hunters and he signaled them to halt at Gwen's request. Something about the woman was different… She killed a man. True, the man was a monster, and he'd been harassing her best friend for years, but he was still a man. She didn't even hesitate, and now, she carried herself with an unflinching resolve that obviously meant business. Her chief would be wise to take her seriously.

Nevertheless, when Dean crossed the distance between them, John wore a cold expression while gesturing at Sam. "You have your brother back. I want my son. Now."

Dean never actually planned on keeping his end of the agreement. No way in hell would he drag Sam back to his tormentors, especially against his will. He had hoped that Castiel could fly them away from the Syndicate once they rescued Sam, leaving John high and dry, but that was no longer an option. Cas wasn't flying anywhere. Crap. "Look, man. We're all tired. My friend's hurt. Can't this wait till we're back in civilization?"

John shook his head. "No. I don't think it can. Tell me where Sam is so I can send a squad to retrieve him, or there will be hell to pay."

"Dad, no!" Prince Charming anxiously interrupted, interceding on Dean's behalf, much to everyone's surprise. "You don't…" His face was contorting in anguish. "You don't know what Sam's been through… We can't… He needs time to heal." Something about Prince Charming's tone, his overall demeanor, caught John's attention, and the color drained from his cheeks.

Dean sighed. "Look, someone give me a phone." His had been waterlogged. Immediately, Gwen tossed him her device, and he punched in the number to Bobby's burner phone, which he memorized back in the abandoned barn.

The gruff old man must have been waiting for the call, for he answered on the first ring. "Who the hell is this?"

"Bobby, it's Dean."

"Oh yeah? Which one?"

He couldn't help but smile at his friend's healthy paranoia. "The one who gave you a hug when we met on your doorstep."

"Oh…" A beat. "Well, then… How did it go? Did you find your brother?"

"Yeah, he's gonna be okay, but Cas was injured. Look, can I speak with Sam?"

"One sec…"

The phone was promptly transferred, and then his brother's voice came on the line. "Dean?" It was strange to hear one Sam over the phone while another Sam—his Sam—was sitting right behind him. "What's going on? Is everyone okay?"

Might as well get straight to the point. "Ethan's dead." Shock rippled through the crowd of hunters, though no one said a word. Dean tried to block out their expressions, focusing instead on Sam's reaction. "You still with me?"

"Yeah, I… I just… I…" He was flustered, skeptical, and obviously still afraid. "Are you sure?"

"I saw it happen," Dean steadily replied. "It's over. He'll never hurt you again." He turned to glance down at his own brother, who met his gaze with just a hint of a smile buried beneath his lingering dismay. Considering how much Ethan hurt him—a virtual stranger—they could well imagine his crimes against the Sam he actually knew—and despised. It was a good thing Gwen killed the son of a bitch.

"How's Dean?" Sam's voice was understandably nervous, but also desperate. He longed for his family—there was no question about that—and as much as Dean deplored his twin's behavior, he couldn't bring himself to crush Sam's fragile spirit. So he told the truth.

"He's racked with guilt. I think it's safe to say Ethan's death broke whatever spell he had over him."

"It was a demon deal."

Dean caught his breath. "What?"

"Ethan," Sam explained. "He made a deal with a crossroads demon. That's why I couldn't…" He trailed off, giving Dean a moment to process the revelation. A demon deal? The implications were devastating. A spell could always be broken, but demon deals were binding—another reason why they absolutely had to shut the gates of hell—at any cost.

On the other hand…

A small smile tugged at the corners of Dean's lips. "Did Ethan really kill Lilith?"

He could almost feel Sam's confusion. "What? I mean… Yeah. I think so. Why?"

"Lilith and Alastair shared a common goal, and by killing Lilith, Ethan threw a wrench in their plans. I'm betting Alastair has a bone to pick with the bastard. Trust me, Sam. Whatever he did to you, he's gonna get it back a hundred fold. I can promise you that."

Of course, it was still too soon for Sam to celebrate. His heart was too heavy, and his mind was no doubt spinning. "Can I talk to my brother?"

Dean hesitated, glancing from the chief over to Prince Charming, both of whom were holding onto every word of his conversation. Perhaps… there might still be hope for them. Dean sighed, relinquishing the phone to his anxious twin, who seized it desperately.

"Sam!?" He turned, darting out to the shoreline for some much-needed privacy. John followed. No one else dared to move.

Dean felt the tension easing out of his shoulders. He wasn't responsible for the people in this reality, or the decisions they made. From here on out, they were on their own. But… if he knew anything about family… if he knew anything about _their_ family… they'd be okay. They'd find a way to navigate out of the fear and guilt and heartbreak—even if it took years—and they would move on with their lives.

Dean was certainly ready to move on with his.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	31. Epilogue

**SPN**

The rescue choppers began to arrive fifteen minutes later, but with all the trees, they weren't able to land. Instead, they used their rescue harnesses to lift people up, one by one. Sam, Dean, and Cas were among the first to go, accompanied by Gwen, but not John or the other Dean. As leaders of the Syndicate, they refused to leave their people behind, and would remain on the mountain until they could account for everyone.

In the meantime, Sam, Dean, Cas, and Gwen were flown to Missoula, where a limousine picked them up and brought them to a nice hotel. Not a hospital. A hotel. When John called to make their travel arrangements, he must have understood how clinical the compound was, and how uncomfortable Sam would be in a similar environment.

The hotel was far from clinical. It was more of a rustic resort with cedar walls, stone fireplaces, decorative deer heads, and antler chandeliers. The boys were given the master suite, an oversized room with an oversized bed, two oversized sofas, an oversized kitchen, and an oversized balcony. The extravagance left Sam speechless, but Dean wasn't fazed.

"You should've seen their mansion," he mumbled as they ushered Cas onto the bed. Physically, the angel was in good shape—a little bit of rest, and he'd be fine. Until then, of course, they were stuck in this reality with a pair of hunters stationed outside their door "to keep them safe." Yeah right.

Once Cas was settled, Sam made his way over to the nearest sofa, where he collapsed in exhaustion. Dean wandered into the kitchen and began riffling through the pantry, fridge, and cabinets. He soon emerged with two bottles of beer and the phone number for room service. Seriously? When was the last time they ordered room service?

Handing Sam a bottle, Dean reached for the land line. "Hi, this is, um… the master suite, I guess. We're gonna need some pizza, some chicken noodle soup, and some pie… Yeah, well, make it happen! … What? Oh… Where are we, Montana? Let's start with huckleberry… Yes, sir. Thank you very much." He dropped the phone back in its cradle and took a long sip of his beer. He eased onto the sofa next to Sam. "God, I'm starving."

Sam felt a cough coming, but managed to choke it down. He tried not to think about the cave, and all those hands forcing food in his mouth. He couldn't deny he was hungry, but then again, he wasn't sure he had the stomach for it. "I don't think I can eat right now."

Dean glanced over at him, obviously worried. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and clenched his jaw. He took another sip of his beer before setting it on the table next to the phone. "I never should've left you at the bunker. I should've been there."

Sam averted his eyes. "What if I deserved it? For leaving you in Purgatory?"

His brother scoffed. "Oh, give me a break. Sam, I forgave you for that! Besides, Purgatory gave me the endurance to reach that lake in time, so as far as I'm concerned, the whole thing was a blessing in disguise."

Sam wasn't convinced, and he shrank in on himself. After everything that happened, being here in a fancy room, next to his brother—safe!—felt surreal, almost like a dream. He knew he should be relieved… This wasn't the first time he'd been traumatized, and it wouldn't be the last… He should be able to cope with it. He should be stronger than this. "I'm sorry…" he whispered. "For everything."

"Sammy…"

"I'm gonna have a hard time shrugging this one off."

"I know," Dean assured him. "I'd be nervous if you didn't."

Sam grimaced as another cough sneaked up on him. He doubled over, hacking painfully as blood and bile rose in his throat. He still had two trials left to complete. God help him. He was going to die. He could see it now, so clearly. What made him think there could ever be another way?

Gradually, as the coughing stopped, Dean reached towards him and gently scooped him in his arms. "I've got you, Sammy. You're gonna be okay."

" _Listen, I may not be able to carry the burden that comes along with these trials… But I can carry you."_

 **SPN**

Later that evening, Gwen ventured down the hallway toward the master suite, eager to check in on the boys. It had been a long afternoon, spent on the phone with officials, reporters, and hunters, spreading the news of her father's arrest and Eve's demise while tracking the progress of their withdrawal from the mountainside battlefield. Change was in the air. Gwen could feel it, and she embraced it. Hell, she was Richard Campbell's granddaughter! The time had come for her to make the Syndicate worthy of honor. It was long overdue.

But for now, the hotel was serving steak in the dining room, and she hoped Sam, Dean, and Castiel would agree to join her for dinner. Acknowledging the two guards with a friendly smile, she knocked gently on the boys' door. "Dean? It's Gwen!"

No response.

Frowning, she knocked harder, but still no one answered. Peering over her shoulder, she looked to the guards for help. One had a spare key to the master suite, and he hastened to unlock the door. They scrambled inside, only to find it empty.

Their visitors were gone.

 **SPN**

"Now that's more like it!" Dean exclaimed when his brother appeared in Bobby's cluttered living room, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a warm flannel shirt, courtesy of his counterpart. "How do you feel?"

"Better," Sam replied, glancing over at the other version of himself. "Thank you."

"It's the least I could do," he apologized. "I mean, it's me they wanted… Ethan…"

"Ethan's dead," Sam interrupted. "And he's rotting in hell, right where he belongs. That's all that matters."

The other Sam sighed, dropping his gaze. "I'm still waiting for that to sink in, you know?"

Sam nodded. "It's a lot to process, but you're safe now. Don't waste anymore time on the bastard. He doesn't deserve your attention."

When the kid offered no reply, Dean quickly changed the subject. "So what's your next move?" he asked, genuinely interested. "You staying here, or going home?"

He shrugged. "I'm gonna take it one day at a time." He glanced around at Bobby, who was leaning over his desk with Castiel, scrutinizing the Mirror of Astolat. "I wanna make sure my dad pardons him for hunting without a license. If he does, maybe I can trust him."

"He loves you," Dean assured him. "So does your brother. You know that, right?"

A tiny smile lit his face. "Yeah. I know."

Eventually, Cas gathered up the mirror and faced the boys. "Are we ready?"

Sam nodded. "More than ready. Let's go home."

 **THE END!**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Thank you all so much for your endless support! I can't believe this story's over, but it really surpassed my expectations, and I'm beyond satisfied. Hope to hear from you all! And always keep fighting!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


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